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A BUNCH
OF EVERLASTINGS

TEXTS THAT MADE HISTORY
A VOLUME OF SERMONS

F.^ W: BOREHAM

AUTHOR or

"a reel of rainbow"; "the uttermost star"; "the silver shadow";

"the other su f of the hill"; "faces in the fire"; "mushrooms

ON the mook"; "the golden milestone"; "mountains

in the mi:i"; "the luggage or lifi," etc.

"There still is need for martjn*s and apostles,
There still are texts for never-dying song."

— Lowell.

THE ABINGDON PRESS
NEW YORK CINCINNATI

THEi:".- ' YDr.K
PUBLi:: LlBHARY

-816032

ASTOR, LENOX AND

TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

R J 920 L

CONTENTS

PAGE

By Way of Introduction 5

I. Thomas Chalmers' Text 7

II, Martin Luther's Text i8

III. Sir John Franklin's Text 28

IV. Thomas Boston's Text 39

V . Hugh Latimer's Text 51

VI. John Bunyan's Text 62

VII. Sir Walter Scott's Text 73

VIII . Oliver Cromwell's Text 83

IX . Francis Xavier's Text 92

X. J. B. Cough's Text 99

\ XI. John Knox's Text no

XII. William Cowper's Text 120

XIII. David Livingstone's Text 129

« \ XIV. C. H. Spurgeon's Text 141

-jc XV. Dean Stanley's Text 150

Contents

PAGE

XVI. William Carey's Text i6i

XVII. James Hannington's Text 173

XVIII. William Wilberforce's Text 185

XIX. John Wesley's Text 198

XX. William Knibb's Text 210

XXI. John Newton's Text 222

XXII. Andrew Fuller's Text 235

XXIII. Stephen Grellet's Text 247

BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION

Five and twenty years ago to-night I was
solemnly ordained a minister of the everlasting
gospel. A medley of most romantic circumstances
conspired to fix indelibly upon my mind the pro-
found impressions then created. I was a total
stranger on this side of the planet : I had only
landed in New Zealand a few hours before. Yet
here I was among a people who were pleased to
recognise in me their first minister! Trembling
under the consciousness of my boyish inexperience,
and shuddering under the awful burden imposed
upon me by the Ordination Charge, I felt that life
had suddenly become tremendous. I was doing
business in deep waters! As a recognition of the
goodness and mercy that have followed me all the
days of my ministerial life, I desire, with inex-
pressible thankfulness, to send forth this Bunch
of Everlastings.

Frank W. Boreham.

Armadale, Mexbourne, Australia.
March 15th, 1920.

THOMAS CHALMERS' TEXT

It was a mystery. Nobody in Kilmany could
understand it. They were people of the flock
and the field, men of the plough and the pas-
ture. There were only about one hundred and
fifty families scattered across the parish, and such
social life as they enjoyed all circled round the
kirk. They were all very fond of their young
minister, and very proud of his distinguished
academic attainments. Already, in his preaching,
there were hints of that 'sublime thunder' that
afterwards rolled through the world. In his later
years it was said of him that Scotland shuddered
beneath his billowy eloquence as a cathedral
vibrates to the deep notes of the organ. He be-
came, as Lord Rosebery has testified, the most
illustrious Scotsman since John Knox. But his
farmer-folk at Kilmany could not be expected to
foresee all this. They felt that their minister was
no ordinary man; yet there was one thing about
him that puzzled every member of the congrega-
tion. The drovers talked of it as they met each
other on the long and lonely roads; the women
discussed it as they waited outside the kirk whilst

8 A Birnch of Everlastings

their husbands harnessed up the horses; the
farmers themselves referred to it wonderingly
when they talked things over in the stockyards and
the market-place. Mr. Chalmers was only twenty-
three. He had matriculated at twelve; had become
a divinity student at fifteen; and at nineteen had
been licensed to preach. Now that, with much
fear and trembling, he had settled at Kilmany, he
made a really excellent minister. He has himself
told us that, as he rode about his parish, his affec-
tions flew before him. He loved to get to the
firesides of the people, and he won from old and
young their unstinted admiration, their confidence
and their love. But for all that, the mystery
remained. Briefly stated, it was this : Why did
he persist in preaching to these decent, well-
meaning and law-abiding Scottish farmers in a
strain that implied that they ought all to be in
gaol? Why, Sabbath after Sabbath, did he thun-
der at them concerning the heinous wickedness
of theft, of murder, and of adultery? After a hard
week's work in field and stable, byre and dairy,
these sturdy Scotsmen drove to the kirk at the
sound of the Sabbath bell, only to find themselves
rated by the minister as though they had spent
the week in open shame! They filed into their
family pews with their wives and their sons and
their daughters, and were straightway charged
with all the crimes in the calendar! Later on, the
minister himself saw both the absurdity and the

Thomas Chalmers' Text 9

pity of it. It was, as he told the good people of
Kilmany, part of his bitter self-reproach that, for
the greater part of the time he spent among them,
'I could expatiate only on the meanness of dis-
honesty, on the villany of falsehood, on the
despicable arts of calumny, in a word, upon all
those deformities of character which awaken the
natural indignation of the human heart against the
pests and disturbers of human society.' Now and
again, the brilliant and eloquent young preacher
turned aside from this line of things in order to
denounce the designs of Napoleon. But as the
Fifeshire farmers saw no way in which the argu-
ments of their minister were likely to come under
the notice of the tyrant and turn him from his fell
purpose of invading Britain, they were as much
perplexed by these sermons as by the others. This
kind of thing continued without a break from 1803
until 181 1 ; and the parish stood bewildered.

From 1803 until 181 1! But what of the four
years that followed? For he remained at Kilmany
until 181 5 — the year of Waterloo! Let me set a
second picture beside the one I have already
painted! Could any contrast be greater? The
people were bewildered before : they were even
more bewildered now! The minister was another
man: the kirk was another place! During those
closing years at Kilmany, Mr. Chalmers tJiijndered

lo A Bunch of Everlastings

against the grosser crimes no more. He never
again held forth from his pulpit against the in-
iquities of the Napoleonic programme. But every
Sunday he had something fresh to say about the
love of God, about the Cross of Christ, and about
the way of salvation. Every Sunday he urged his
people with tears to repent, to believe, and to
enter into life everlasting. Every Sunday he set
before them the beauty of the Christian life, and,
by all the arts of eloquent persuasion, endeavoured
to lead his people into it. 'He would bend over
the pulpit,' writes one who heard him both before
and after the change, 'he would bend over the
pulpit and press us to take the gift, as if he held
it that moment in his hand and would not be satis-
fied till every one of us had got possession of
it. And often, when the sermon was over, and
the psalm was sung, and he rose to pronounce the
blessing, he would break out afresh with some new
entreaty, unwilling to let us go until he had made
one more effort to persuade us to accept it.' Now
here are the two pictures side by side — the picture
of Chalmers during his first eight years at Kilmany,
and the picture of Chalmers during his last four
years there ! The question is : What happened in
1811 to bring about the change?

That is the question; and the answer, bluntly
stated, is that, in 181 1, Chalmers was converted!

Thomas Chalmers' Text n

He made a startling discovery — the most sensational
discovery that any man ever made. He had oc-
cupied all the years of his ministry on the Ten
Commandments; he now discovered, not only that
there are more commandments than ten, but that
the greatest commandments of all are not to
be found among the ten! The experience of
Chalmers resembles in many respects the experi-
ence of the Marquis of Lossie. Readers of George
Macdonald's Malcolm will never forget the chap-
ter on 'The Marquis and the Schoolmaster.' The
dying m'arquis sends for the devout schoolmaster,
Mr. Graham. The schoolmaster knows his man,
and goes cautiously to work.

*Are you satisfied with yourself, my lord?'

*No, by God!'

* You would like to be better ?'

*Yes; but how is a poor devil to get out of this
infernal scrape?'

'Keep the commandments!'

'That's it, of course; but there's no time!'

*If there were but time to draw another breath,
there would be time to begin !'

'How am I to begin? Which am I to begin
with?'

'There is one commandment which includes all
the rest !'

'Which is that?'

'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt
he saved!'

12 A Bunch of Everlastings

When the Marquis of Lossie passed from the
ten commandments to the commandment that in-
cludes all the ten, he found the peace for which
he hungered, and, strangely enough, Chalmers en-
tered into life in a precisely similar way.

'I am much taken,' he says in his journal, in
May, 1811, 'I am much taken with Walker's obser-
vation that we are commanded to believe on the
Son of God !'

Commanded!

The Ten Commandments !

The Commandment that includes all the Com-
mandments!

'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shall
be saved!'

That was the Marquis of Lossie's text, and it
was Chalmers'.

At about this time, he was overtaken by a serious
illness. He always regarded those days of feeble-
ness and confinement as the critical days in his
spiritual history. Long afterwards, when the ex-
perience of the years had shown that the impressions
then made were not transitory, he wrote to his
brother giving him an account of the change that
then overtook him. He describes it as a great
revolution in all his methods of thought. *I am
now most thoroughly of opinion,' he goes on, 'that
on the system of "Do this and live!" no peace can

Thomas Chalmers' Text 13

ever be attained. It is "Believe on the Lord Jesus
Christ and thou shalt he saved!" When this behef
enters the heart, joy and confidence enter along
with it!'

'Thus,' says Dr. Hanna in his great biography
of Chalmers, 'thus we see him stepping from the
treacherous ground of "Do and live!" to place his
feet upon the firm foundation of "Believe on the
Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt he saved!" '

Do! — The Ten Commandments — that was his
theme at Kilmany for eight long years!

Believe! — The Commandment that includes all
the Commandments — that was the word that trans-
formed his life and transfigured his ministry!

'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt
be saved!'

The result of that change we have partly seen.
But only partly. We have seen it from the point
of view of the pew. We have seen the farmer- folk
of Kilmany astonished as they caught a new note
in the minister's preaching, a new accent in the
minister's voice. But we must see the change from
the point of view of the pulpit. And, as seen from
the pulpit, the result of the transformation was
even more surprising and sensational. Chalmers
alone can tell that story, and we must let him tell
it in his own way. The twelve years at Kilmany —
the eight hefore the change, and the four after it —

14 A Bunch of Everlastings

have come to an end at last ; and, at a special meeting
called for the purpose, Mr. Chalmers is taking a
sorrowful farewell of his first congregation. The
farmers and their wives have driven in from far
and near. Their minister has been called to a great
city charge; they are proud of it; but they find it
hard to give him up. The valedictory speeches
have all been made, and now Mr. Chalmers rises
to reply. After a feeling acknowledgement of the
compliments paid him, he utters one of the most
impressive and valuable testimonies to which any
minister ever gave expression. *I cannot but record,'
he says, 'the effect of an actual though undesigned
experiment which I prosecuted for upwards of
twelve years among you. For the first eight years
of that time I could expatiate only on the meanness
of dishonesty, on the villany of falsehood, on the
despicable arts of calumny, in a word, upon all
those deformities of character which awaken the
natural indignation of the human heart against the
pests and disturbers of human society. But the
interesting fact is, that, during the whole of that
period, I never once heard of any reformation being
wrought amongst my people. All the vehemence
with which I urged the virtues and the proprieties
of social life had not the weight of a feather on
the moral habits of my parishioners. It was not
until the free offer of forgiveness through the blood
of Christ was urged upon the acceptance of my
hearers that I ever heard of any of those subordi-

Thomas Chalmers' Text 15

nate reformations which I made the ultimate object
of my earlier ministrations.' And he closes that
farewell speech with these memorable words : 'You
have taught me,' he says, 'that to preach Christ is
the only effective way of preaching morality; and
out of your humble cottages I have gathered a
lesson which, in all its simplicity, I shall carry into
a wider theatre.'

Do! — The Ten Commandments — that was his
theme at Kilmany for eight long years, and it had
not the weight of a feather !

Believe! — The Commandment that includes all
the Commandments — that was his theme for the
last four years, and he beheld its gracious and
renovating effects in every home in the parish!

'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shall
he saved!'

With that great witness on his lips, Chalmers
lays down his charge at Kilmany, and plunges into
a larger sphere to make world-history!

^Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt
be saved!' Chalmers greatly believed and was
greatly saved. He was saved from all sin and
made saintly. *If ever a halo surrounded a
saint,' declares Lord Rosebery, *it encompassed
Chalmers!' He was saved from all littleness and
made great. Mr. Gladstone used to say of him
that the world can never forget 'his warrior

1 6 A Bunch of Everlastings

grandeur, his unbounded philanthropy, his strength
of purpose, his mental integrity, his absorbed and
absorbing earnestness; and, above all, his singular
simplicity ; he was one of nature's nobles.' *A strong
featured man,' said Carlyle, thinking of the massive
form, the leonine head and the commanding counte-
nance of his old friend; *a strong featured man,
and of very beautiful character.' When I want a
definition of the salvation that comes by faith, I
like to think of Thomas Chalmers.

VII

Yes; he greatly believed and was greatly saved;
he greatly lived and greatly died. It is a Sunday
evening. He — now an old man of sixty-seven — has
remained at home, and has spent a delightful eve-
ning with his children and grandchildren. It is one
of the happiest evenings that they have ever spent
together. *We had family worship this morning,'
the old doctor says to a minister who happens to
be present, 'but you must give us worship again
this evening. I expect to give worship in the
morning!' Immediately after prayers he withdraws,
smiling and waving his hands to them all and
wishing them, 'a general good-night!' They call
him in the morning: but there is no response. 'I
expect to give worship in the morning!' he had said ;
and he has gone to give it ! He is sitting up in bed,
half erect, his head reclining gently on the pillow;
the expression of his countenance that of fixed and

Thomas Chalmers' Text 17

majestic repose. His students liked to think that
their old master had been translated at the zenith
of his powers : he felt no touch of senile decay.

'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt
be saved!' What is it to be saved? I do not know.
No man knows. But as I think of the transforma-
tion that the text effected in the experience of
Chalmers; as I contemplate his valiant and un-
selfish life; together with his beautiful and glorious
death; and as I try to conceive of the felicity into
which that Sunday night he entered, I can form an
idea.

MARTIN LUTHER'S TEXT

It goes without saying that the text that made
Martin Luther made history with a vengeance.
When, through its mystical but mighty ministry,
Martin Luther entered into newness of Hfe, the
face of the world was changed. It was as though
all the windows of Europe had been suddenly
thrown open, and the sunshine came streaming in
everywhere. The destinies of empires were turned
that day into a new channel. Carlyle has a stirring
and dramatic chapter in which he shows that every
nation under heaven stood or fell according to the
attitude that it assumed towards Martin Luther,
*I call this Luther a true Great Man,' he exclaims.
*He is great in intellect, great in courage, great in
affection and integrity; one of our most lovable
and gracious men. He is great, not as a hewn
obelisk is great, but as an Alpine mountain is great ;
so simple, honest, spontaneous; not setting himself
up to be great, but there for quite another purpose
than the purpose of being great!' 'A mighty man,'
he says again; what were all emperors, popes and
potentates in comparison? His light was to flame
as a beacon over long centuries and epochs of the

Martin Luther's Text 19

world ; the whole world and its history was waiting
for this man !' And elsewhere he declares that the
moment in which Luther defied the wrath of the
Diet of Worms was the greatest moment in the
modern history of men. Here, then, was the man;
what was the text that made him ?

Let us visit a couple of very interesting Euro-
pean libraries! And here, in the Convent Library
at Erfurt, we are shown an exceedingly famous
and beautiful picture. It represents Luther as a
young monk of four and twenty, poring in the
early morning over a copy of the Scriptures to
which a bit of broken chain is hanging. The dawn
is stealing through the open lattice, illumining both
the open Bible and the eager face of its reader.
And on the page that the young monk so intently
studies are to be seen the words: 'The just shall
live by faith.'

'The just shall live by faith!*

'The just shall live by faith!'

These, then, are the words that made the world
all over again. And now, leaving the Convent
Library at Erfurt, let us visit another library, the
Library of Rudolstadt! For here, in a glass case,
we shall discover a manuscript that will fascinate
us. It is a letter in the handwriting of Dr. Paul
Luther, the reformer's youngest son. *In the
year 1544,' we read, 'my late dearest father, in

20 A Bunch of Everlastings

the presence of us all, narrated the whole story of
his journey to Rome. He acknowledged with great
joy that, in that city, through the Spirit of Jesus
Christ, he had come to the knowledge of the truth
of the everlasting gospel. It happened in this way.
As he repeated his prayers on the Lateran staircase,
the words of the Prophet Habakkuk camte suddenly
to his mind : "The just shall live by faith." There-
upon he ceased his prayers, returned to Witten-
berg, and took this as the chief foundation of all his
doctrine.'

*The just shall live by faith!'

'The just shall live by faith!*

The picture in the one library, and the manuscript
in the other, have told us all that we desire to
know.

Ill

'The just shall live by faith!'

The words do not flash or glitter. Like the ocean,
they do not give any indication upon the surface
of the profundities and mysteries that lie concealed
beneath. And yet of what other text can it be
said that, occurring in the Old Testament, it is thrice
quoted in the New?

'The just shall live by faith!' cries the Prophet.

'The just shall live by faith!' says Paul, when
he addresses a letter to the greatest of the European
churches.

Martin Luther's Text ax

'The just shall live by faith!' he says again, in
his letter to the greatest of the Asiatic churches.

*The just shall live by faith!' says the writer of
the Epistle to the Hebrews, addressing himself to
Jews.

It is as though it were the sum and substance of
everything, to be proclaimed by prophets in the
old dispensation, and echoed by apostles in the
new; to be translated into all languages and trans-
mitted to every section of the habitable earth.
Indeed, Bishop Lightfoot as good as says that the
words represent the concentration and epitome of
all revealed religion. 'The whole law,' he says,
'was given to Moses in six hundred and thirteen
precepts. David, in the fifteenth Psalm, brings
them all within the compass of eleven. Isaiah re-
duces them to six; Micah to three; and Isaiah,
in a later passage, to two. But Habakkuk con-
denses them all into one : "The just shall live by
faith!"'

And this string of monosyllables that sums
up everything and is sent to everybody — the old
world's text : the new world's t6xt : the prophet's
text: the Jew's text: the European's text: the
Asiatic's text: everybody's text — is, in a special
and peculiar sense, Martin Luther's text. We
made that discovery in the libraries of Erfurt
and Rudolstadt; and we shall, as we proceed,
find abundant evidence to confirm us in that con-
clusion.

23 A Bunch of Everlastings

For, strangely enough, the text that echoed
itself three times in the New Testament, echoed
itself three times also in the experience of Luther.
It met him at Wittenberg, it met him at Bologna,
and it finally mastered him at Rome.

It was at Wittenberg that the incident occurred
which we have already seen transferred to the
painter's canvas. In the retirement of his quiet
cell, while the world is still wrapped in slumber,
he pores over the epistle to the Romans. Paul's
quotation from Habakkuk strangely captivates him.

'The just shall live by faith!'

'This precept,' says the historian, 'fascinates
him. "For the just, then," he says to himself,
"there is a life different from that of other men;
and this life is the gift of faith !" This promise,
to which he opens all his heart, as if God had placed
it there specially for him, unveils to him the
mystery of the Christian life. For years after-
wards, in the midst of his numerous occupations,
he fancies that he still hears the words repeating
themselves to him over and over again.'

'The just shall live by faith!'

Years pass. Luther travels. In the course of
his journey, he crosses the Alps, is entertained at
a Benedictine Convent at Bologna, and is there

Martin Luther's Text 23

overtaken by a serious sickness. His mind relapses
into utmost darkness and dejection. To die thus,
under a burning sky and in a foreign land ! He
shudders at the thought. 'The sense of his sinful-
ness troubles him; the prospect of judgement fills
him with dread. But at the very moment at which
these terrors reach their highest pitch, the words
that had already struck him at Wittenberg recur
forcibly to his memory and enlighten his soul like
a ray from heaven —

"The just shall live by faith!"

"The just shall live by faith!"
Thus restored and comforted,' the record con-
cludes, 'he soon regains his health and resumes his
journey.'

The third of these experiences — the experience
narrated in that fireside conversation of which the
manuscript at Rudolstadt has told us — befalls him
at Rome. 'Wishing to obtain an indulgence
promised by the Pope to all who shall ascend
Pilate's Staircase on their knees, the good Saxon
monk is painfully creeping up those steps which,
he is told, were miraculously transported from
Jerusalem to Rome. Whilst he is performing this
meritorious act, however, he thinks he hears a
voice of thunder crying, as at Wittenberg and
Bologna —

"The just shall live by faith!"

'These words, that twice before have struck him

34 A Bunch of Everlastings

like the voice of an angel from heaven, resound
unceasingly and powerfully within him. He rises
in amazement from the steps up which he is drag-
ging his body: he shudders at himself: he is
ashamed at seeing to what a depth superstition
plunged him. He flies far from the scene of his
folly.'

Thus, thrice in the New Testament and thrice
in the life of Luther, the text speaks with singular
appropriateness and effect.

*This powerful text,' remarks Merle D'Aubigne,
*has a mysterious influence on the life of Luther.
It was a creative sentence, both for the reformer
and for the Reformation. It was in these words
that God then said, "Let there be light !" and there
was light!'

It was the unveiling of the Face of God ! Until
this great transforming text flashed its light into
the soul of Luther, his thought of God was a pagan
thought. And the pagan thought is an unjust
thought, an unworthy thought, a cruel thought.
Look at this Indian devotee! From head to foot
he bears the marks of the torture that he has in-
flicted upon his body in his frantic efforts to give
pleasure to his god. His back is a tangle of scars.
The flesh has been lacerated by the pitiless hooks

Martin Luther's Text 25

by which he has swung himself on the terrible
churuka. Iron spears have been repeatedly run
through his tongue. His ears are torn to ribbons.
What does it mean? It can only mean that he
worships a fiend! His god loves to see him in
anguish! His cries of pain are music in the ears
of the deity whom he adores ! This ceaseless orgy
of torture is his futile endeavour to satisfy the
idol's lust for blood. Luther made precisely the
same mistake. To his sensitive mind, every thought
of God was a thing of terror. 'When I was young,'
he tells us, *it happened that at Eisleben, on Corpus
Christi day, I was walking with the procession,
when, suddenly, the sight of the Holy Sacrament
which was carried by Doctor Staupitz, so terrified
me that a cold sweat covered my body and I believed
myself dying of terror.' All through his convent
days he proceeds upon the assumption that God
gloats over his misery. His life is a long drawn
out agony. He creeps like a shadow along the gal-
leries of the cloister, the walls echoing with his
dismal moanings. His body wastes to a skeleton;
his strength ebbs away : on more than one occasion
his brother monks find him prostrate on the convent
floor and pick him up for dead. And all the time
he thinks of God as One who can find delight in
these continuous torments! The just shall live,
he says to himself, by penance and by pain. The
just shall live by fasting: the just shall live by
fear.

26 A Bunch of Everlastings

VII

*The just shall live by fear!' Luther mutters to
himself every day of his life.

'The just shall live by faith!' says the text that
breaks upon him like a light from heaven.

'By fear! By fear!'

'By faith! By faith!'

And what is faith? The theologians may find
difficulty in defining it, yet every little child knows
what it is. In all the days of my own ministry I
have found only one definition that has satisfied
me, and whenever I have had occasion to speak of
faith, I have recited it. It is Bishop O'Brien's: —

'They who know what is meant by faith in a
promise, know what is meant by faith in the Gospel;
they who know what is meant by faith in a remedy,
know what is meant by faith in the blood of the
Redeemer; they who know what is meant by faith
in a physician, faith in an advocate, faith in a friend,
know, too, what is meant by faith in the Lord Jesus
Christ.'

With the coming of the text, Luther passes from
the realm of fear into the realm of faith. It is like
passing from the rigours of an arctic night into
the sunshine of a summer day; it is like passing
from a crowded city slum into the fields where
the daffodils dance and the linnets sing; it is like
passing into a new world; it is like entering Para-
dise!

Blartin Luther's Text 27

VIII

Yes, it is like entering Paradise! The expression
is his, not mine. 'Before those words broke upon
my mind,' he says, 'I hated God and was angry
with Him because, not content with frightening us
sinners by the law and by the miseries of life, he
still further increased our torture by the gospel.
But when, by the Spirit of God, I understood these
words —

"The just shall live by faith!"

"The just shall live by faith!"
— then I felt born again like a new man; I entered
through the open doors into the very Paradise of
God!'

'Henceforward,' he says again, 'I saw the beloved
and holy Scriptures with other eyes. The words
that I had previously detested, I began from that
hour to value and to love as the sweetest and most
consoling words in the Bible. In very truth, this
text was to me the true gate of Paradise!'

'An open door into the very Paradise of God!'

'This text was to me the true gate of Paradise!'

And they who enter into the City of God by that
gate will go no more out for ever.

Ill

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN'S TEXT

A HEAP of books and bones — and that was all!
One after another, no fewer than forty intrepid
navigators had invaded the awful solitudes of the
Arctic seas in quest of some trace of Sir John
Franklin and his gallant men; and this was the
tardy and the meagre reward of those long, long
years of search! On the snow-bound coast of a
large but inhospitable island, Sir Francis McClintock
discovered an overturned and dilapidated boat.
Underneath it, together with a few guns and
watches, they found a collection of bones and of
books. The men had been more than ten years
dead. Sir John Franklin, it was known, from
documents found elsewhere, had died upon his ship.
His last moments were cheered by the knowledge,
which came to him just in time, that the expedition
had been successful, and that the long-dreamed-of
North-West-Passage had been proved to be a fact.
The other miembers of the expedition, more than a
hundred and twenty men, had made an attempt to
save their lives by an overland dash. The natives
had seen that shadowy and wavering line of wan-
derers. They were very thin, the Eskimos said,

Sir John Franklin's Text 29

and could with difficulty stagger along. With every
mile, some fell out and lay down in the snow to die.
Others, according to an old native woman who met
them, seemed to die upon their feet, and they only
fell because death had already overtaken them. But,
of all the members of the Franklin expedition, these
were the first whose bones were actually found.
And, with the bones, some books ! It was the bones
that principally interested their discoverers: it is
the books that must principally interest us. For
some of these saturated and frozen volumes were
once the personal property of Sir John Franklin.
Do they not still bear his name ? One of them is a
battered copy of Dr. John Todd's Student's Manual.
Sir John has turned down a leaf in order to mark
a passage that appears on almost the last page of the
book.

* "Are you not afraid to die?" *

*No!'

'No ! Why does the uncertainty of another state
give you no concern?'

'Because God has said to me: "Fear not; when
thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee;
and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee!" '

There, as though his frozen finger pointed to it,
stands Sir John Franklin's text.

'The waters! The waters!'

'The beckoning, challenging waters!'

30 A Bunch of Everlastings

'When thou passe st through the waters!*
From his earliest boyhood the waters had called
him. He lived in an inland town : his parents de-
signed him for the church : he was to be a bishop,
so they said ! But a holiday at the seaside makes
all the difference. He walks up and down the sands
looking out on the infinite expanse of water. He
climbs the broken cliffs, and shading his eyes with his
hand, watches the great ships vanish over the dis-
tant skyline. The unseen taunts his imagination :
it alters the whole course of his life. The sight of
the sea awakens a tempest of strange passions in
his soul. Distant voices call him and distant fingers
beckon. To be a sailor! To be the first that ever
burst into some silent sea! His fancy catches fire
at the very thought of it!
The waters! The waters!
The call of the waters!
'When thou passest through the waters!'
He yields himself to the impulse that he scarcely
has the power to resist. He gives himself to the
waters, and he learns the business of seamanship
from the most distinguished masters of all time.
With Matthew Flinders, the most audacious and
the most unfortunate of our Australian explorers,
he circumnavigates this great continent; whilst at
Copenhagen and Trafalgar he fights beneath 'the
greatest sailor since the world began,' He makes
friends, too, with men who have sailed with Cap-
tain Cook, from one of whom, Sir Joseph Banks, he

Sir John Franklin's Text 31

catches the inspiration that sends him cruising into
Arctic seas. But whether in peaceful exploration or
amidst the excitements of war, whether in the
sunny South or in the frigid and desolate North,
he is for ever listening to the voices of the waters.
He knows what the wild waves are saying. They
are calling him to come. And he obeys. For in his
heart he cherishes a wonderful secret. The un-
known waters are not as lonely as they seem.

The shining tropical waters!

The frozen polar waters!

The unseen, unsailed waters!

'When thou passest through the waters, I will
be with thee!'

The delightful eyes of Franklin behold a sea of
significance in that.

A dauntless explorer and a brilliant discoverer
was Franklin, but by far the most fruitful dis-
covery of his adventurous life was made in 1820,
He was then in his thirty-fifth year, and was un-
dergoing his first experience of the ice-bound North.
He was in charge of the overland section of the
expedition, and was compelled to winter at Fort
Enterprise, a desolate spot half way between the
Great Bear Lake and the Great Slave Lake. It
was a weird experience — so cold, so dark, so still!
In a letter to his sister, written from this out-
landish solitude, he speaks of the astonishing way

32 A Bunch of Everlastings

in which, during the intense Arctic silence, his
Bible breaks with new beauty upon him. It is not
the same book. The surprises grow in novelty and
wonder every day. Everything in the sacred vol-
ume, and especially the central story — the story
of redeeming love — acquires a new glory in his en-
raptured eyes. In this hushed wilderness of snow
and ice, he has abundant time for thought. Such
serious reflection, he says, must soon convince a
sinner of his guilt, of his inability to do anything
to save himself, and of his urgent need of de-
liverance. 'If, under this conviction, he should
enquire, ''How, then, can I he saved?" would it not
be joy unspeakable for him to find that the gospel
points out the way? Christ who died for the sal-
vation of sinners is the Way, the Truth and the
Life. Whoso cometh unto Hint in full purpose of
heart shall in no wise he cast out. Can anything
be more cheering than these assurances, or better
calculated to fill the mind with heavenly impres-
sions and lift up the heart in grateful adoration to
God?'

'How, then, can I he saved?'

7 am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Him
that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.*

He has heard the call of the waters; and on his
very first venture into the cold and silent North,
he has discovered this! He has found, not only
a Saviour, but a Friend. He has received the
assurance, on whatever seas he sails, of a divine

Sir John Franklin's Text 33

Presence, a sacred Comradeship; and, to the end of
his life, he never ceased to prize it.

The saint is never cast in a mould: no two are
alike. On my desk at this moment lie two books
side by side. One is the Life of Sir John Franklin,
the other is Brother Lawrence's Practice of the
Presence of God. Can any greater contrast be
imagined? Here are two types of saintliness:
neither appears to have anything in common with
the other. For one man is a monk : the other is
a mariner. The one is a recluse, moving among
the cells and cloisters of a Carmelite Monastery:
the other travels over all the continents and sails
into all the seas. The one is essentially an ascetic:
the other is essentially a man of the world. The
one is pale and thin and sad: the other is bluff
and bronzed and jolly. And yet I am impressed
at this moment, not by the contrast, but by the
similitude. Let us look for a moment beneath the
trappings alike of the monk and of the mariner;
and, in each case, let us search the soul of the man.

'I have quitted all forms of devotion,' says
Brother Lawrence, 'but those to which my state
obliges me. And I make it my business only to
persevere in His holy presence. I am assured be-
yond all doubt that my soul has been with God
above these thirty years. Were I a preacher, I

34 A Bunch of Everlastings

should above all other things preach the practice
of the presence of God; and, were I a director, I
should advise all the world to it, so necessary do
I think it, and so easy, too. I cannot imagine how
religious persons can live satisfied without the
practice of the presecne of God: while I am with
Him I fear nothing, but the least turning from
Him is insupportable.'

Now, had I not revealed the source of these
words, nobody could have told whether I had copied
them from the conversations of the monk or from
the journal of the mariner. They fell from the
lips of Brother Lawrence; but they might just as
as easily have occurred in the correspondence of
Franklin. For it was the joy of Franklin's life,
and the comfort of his death, that he could never
be alone. 'When thou passest through the waters/
the promise said, 'I will he with thee' ; and he be-
lieved it. The thought runs through all his fare-
well letters. His leave-taking reminds one of
Enoch Arden's.

Keep everything shipshape, for I must go!
And fear no more for me; or, if you fear,
Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor holds !
Is He not yonder in those uttermost
Parts of the morning? If I flee to these,
Can I go from Him? And the sea is His,
The sea is His; He made it!

On the night before the ships sailed on that last
fatal voyage, he expressed his confidence in the

Sir John Franklin's Text 35

divine care; in all the blunt sailor-sermons that
he preached to his officers and men amidst the ice,
the same thought was always uppermost; and the
book, with the leaf turned down at the text, shows
that his confidence held out to the last.

The white, white waters!

The cruel and pitiless waters!

The all-engulfing waters!

*When thou passest through the waters, I will
be with thee!'

In life, and in death, that anchor held!

Yes, the anchor held; but the strain upon it was
at times terrific. What test, for example, can be
more severe than the test of slow starvation? And,
more than once, Franklin's faith was subjected to
that terrible ordeal. The ragamuffins in the London
streets used to call Franklin 'the man who ate his
own boots,' and he lived to laugh with them at the
joke; but it was grim enough experience at the
time. The horror of it invaded his sleep for years
afterwards. They are out amidst the snowy vast-
nesses of the interior when the food fails. They
divide into two parties : Franklin leads the stronger
men in an attempt to find provisions, whilst Dr.
Richardson remains to nurse the more exhausted
members of the expedition. The foraging party
has no success; and all are reduced to skeletons.

36 A Bunch of Everlastings

Whilst Franklin and his companions are resting,
Dr. Richardson and a seaman of his party come
spectrally upon them. They are the only survivors
of the group left at the camp! All are soon too
feeble to move. In their extremity a herd of rein-
deer trot by ; but the men are too exhausted to fire !
Franklin remembers the promise, and, with thin
and wavering voice, leads the party in prayer. And
this is the next entry in his journal : —

'Nov. 7, 1 82 1. Praise be to the Lord! We were
this day rejoiced at noon by the appearance of
Indians with supplies !'

'Old Franklin,' so wrote a midshipman to his
friends at home, *old Franklin is an exceedingly
good old chap and very clever. We are all delighted
with him. He is quite a bishop. We have church
morning and evening on Sundays, the evening
service in the cabin to allow of the attendance
of the watch that could not be present in the fore-
noon. We all go both times. The men say they
would rather have him than half the parsons in
England.'

For, after all, there is no eloquence like the elo-
quence of conviction, and out of the depths of a
great and wonderful experience Sir John addressed
his men.

The waters!

The wide, wide waters!

The waves on which the Lord was always
walking!

Sir John Franklin's Text 37

'When thou passest through the waters, I will
be with thee!'

The cable often quivered, but the anchor held!

'When thou passest through the waters, I will
be with thee!'

Franklin found the Lord walking on all the
waters. Lying on my desk is an ancient map of
the world which an old pilot showed to Henry the
Seventh in the year 1500. One or two continents
are missing, but there are ample compensations!
For, all over the unexplored territory, I find written :
'Here be dragons!' 'Here be demons!' 'Here be
sirens!* 'Here be savages that worship devils!' and
so on. But, on his map of the world, Franklin
wrote across all the unknown lands and all the un-
charted seas, 'Here is God!' 'When thou passest
through the waters, I will be with thee!' And he
always found Him there.

'When thou passest through the waters, I will
be with thee!'

Who shall doubt that when, at last, he set out
upon that strange voyage on unknown seas which,
sooner or later, we must all undertake, he still
found the promise true? When Lord Tennyson
was asked to write an inscription for the monument
in Westminster Abbey, he composed the lines that
are recognised as one of the real adornments of
the Abbey: —

38 A Bunch of Everlastings

Not here! the White North hath thy bones, and thou,

Heroic Sailor Soul !
Art passing on thy happier voyage now

Towards no earthly Pole 1

'Passing!'

'Passing on thy happier voyage!'

'When thou passest . . . I will be with thee!'

Who, I say, can doubt the Presence Divine on
those uncharted waters?

When, in 1875, at the age of eighty-three. Lady
Franklin passed away, Dean Stanley added a post-
script to Lord Tennyson's inscription. It declared
that the monument in the Abbey was 'Erected by
his widow, who, after long waiting and sending
many in search of him, herself departed to seek and
to find him in the realms of light/

Thus, He who is with each of His voyagers when
they sail upon strange waters brings them safely
home and safely together; and, in the bliss of
arrival and reunion, the fierce storms and the long
separations are alike forgotten.

THOMAS BOSTON'S TEXT

A WINDING, zig-zag path ascends the steep green
hill beside the stream; and an elderly man, some-
what bent, and leaning heavily upon his stick, is
toiling slowly and painfully up the slope. He pauses,
partly to take breath and partly that he may turn
and survey the exquisite panorama of emerald wood-
land and sparkling stream. But the grandeur of the
silent hills, the perfume of the tossing hyacinths, the
chirping of the grasshoppers at his feet, and the
haunting laughter of the silvery stream below, all
fail to gladden him to-day. The beauteous land-
scape of leafy wold and laughing water is bathed in
radiant sunshine; yet for him the skies are gray and
the earth is wrapped in gJoom. His countenance is
sad and pensive, for he is conjuring up the memories
of happier days. He is thinking of those whom
he has loved long since and lost awhile. He knows
that this must be his final visit to the enchanting
valley that has inspired some of his tenderest poetry.
For this is William Wordsworth. He has written
'Yarrow Unvisited,' 'Yarrow Visited,' and 'Yarrow
Revisited,' and now he has come to take a last lin-
gering farewell of the lovely place. He thinks of

40 A Bunch of Everlastings

those in whose sweet society he first explored its
flowery fields and forest paths — thinks especially of
two. He thinks of Dorothy, his sister, with whom
he walked, hand in hand, along these soft and
grassy banks in the days of long ago. He owes
everything to Dorothy. It was Dorothy who made
him a poet. And now Dorothy is ill, so ill that she
can never really recover ! Then, turning to the east,
he shades his eyes with his hand and looks wistfully
towards Abbotsford. For it was Sir Walter Scott
who first welcomed him to this delightful spot.
Only a few months ago they rambled through these
woodland paths together. And now Scott is dead!
He who was the life and soul of this romantic
countryside will climb its hills and ford its streams
no more! To Wordsworth, the rugged slopes and
the wooded valleys, the waving grasses and the
murmuring torrent, are all lamenting the loss of one
who loved them each so well. There are few things
more affecting than to find the old familiar places,
but to miss the old familiar faces. Wordsworth
passes sadly over the crest of the hill to revisit the
Yarrow vale no more. Scott is dead! This was
in 1832.

We will remain in this same delightful neigh-
bourhood, but we will go back exactly a hundred
years. Scott died in 1832. In 1732 an old minister
whose manse stood just at the foot of yonder hill,

Thomas Boston's Text

lay dying. He has come to within a few days of
his triumphant departure. But, although death is
stamped upon his face, and it is known that he
will never leave his bed again, it is announced that
he will preach on Sunday, morning and evening,
as usual! He orders his bed to be drawn up to
the window, and prepares to address his people for
the last time. Sunday comes. From all the farms
and homesteads of that Selkirkshire countryside,
ploughmen and shepherds, accompanied by their
wives and children, set out early in the morning to
hear their old minister's last words. From all round
the slopes of Ettrick Pen, from the distant foothills
of Broad Law, from the lovely shores of St. Mary's
Lake, from all down the valleys of the Ettrick and
the Yarrow, little groups of men and women make
their way with heavy footsteps to the manse. The
church at the foot of the knoll, the church with its
quaint old tower, the church in which he has minis-
tered for five and twenty years, is closed to-day.
The dying man has turned his deathbed into a
pulpit, and the whole countryside has gathered to
listen to his last message. The eager multitude
stretches far beyond the reach of his thin and
wavering voice. But those who cannot hear can
at least see his pale, wan face, and note the fire in
his eye that even death is impotent to quench. As
he sits, propped up by pillows, pleading with his
people for the last time, the mountain breezes play
with his thin, silvery hair. He exhausts the last

42 A Bunch of Everlastings

atom of his failing strength as he pours out his
soul in aflfectionate admonition and passionate en-
treaty. His voice falters ; the watchers round the
bed gently remove the pillows that support him, and
he lies prostrate, breathing heavily; the window is
closed, and the great black crowd, breaking up into
little groups again, melts sadly and silently away.
In a few days it is tearfully whispered in every
cottage that Thomas Boston is dead. So ended one
of the most fruitful and memorable ministries that
even Scotland has enjoyed. In 1732, as in 1832,
there was sorrow in all that countryside. In 1732,
as in 1832, the Valley of the Yarrow was a vale of
tears.

Ill

Whenever I am inclined to pessimism, or am
tempted to suppose that modern conditions preclude
the possibility of a rich and fruitful ministry, I
reflect on the conditions that beset poor Thomas
Boston. On the self-same day that witnessed the
union under one crown of the English and Scottish
realms, on May Day, 1707, Boston settled at Et-
trick. The church had but few members, and even
these were of such a type that their behaviour was
a reproach to the sanctuary. The poor minister,
whose heart was still tender at leaving his first
people, was horrified to find that his new parishion-
ers could scarcely speak without profanity, and were
addicted to lives of the grossest immorality. Their

Thomas Boston's Text 43

sins, moreover, were absolutely shameless. They
were 'smart and of an uncommon assurance, self-
conceited and censorious to a pitch.' Even when
they came to church, their conduct was disorderly
and indecent to the last degree. Many of them
loitered about the churchyard, arguing and brawl-
ing whilst worship was proceeding; and elders had
to be told off to keep order both inside and outside
of the building. It was three years before Mr.
Boston would allow the Lord's Supper to be ob-
served among them. 'I have been much discouraged
with respect to my parish a long time,' he says in
his Memoirs, 'and have had little hand or heart for
my work.' For twenty-five years, however, he min-
istered incessantly to this people. He visited them
all in their homes; pleaded with them each in secret;
invited the heads of the household to the manse,
and taught them how to conduct family worship.
After three years he was sufficiently assured of the
sincerity of a handful of his people to admit them
to the Lord's Table. Five years later, he is delighted
at finding that he has a hundred and fifty devout
communicants. Later still, he witnesses the most
surprising spectacle in this same valley. People
come in streams from far and near to be present at
the Communion Service at Ettrick. 'It often re-
minded him of the Jewish Pilgrims in Old Testa-
ment times ascending in companies to Jerusalem to
keep their Passover.' When the sacred season came
round he had to call in other ministers to help

44 A Bunch of Everlastings

him dispense the mystic symbols. The wilderness
had become a fruitful field. The Ettrick manse was
every week the resort of eager penitents, who, be-
holding with amazement the transformation in so
many lives around them, were anxious to catch the
holy contagion. In every house, family worship
sanctified the opening and sweetened the close of
each succeeding day. And the old church under the
hill was, to hundreds and hundreds of people, the
dearest spot that eyes had ever seen,

Did I say that, when they withdrew the bed
from the window, and the dying minister turned his
face to the wall, his memorable ministry ended?
If so, it was a slip of the pen, and an unpardonable
slip at that. It is every man's duty to provide him-
self with some honest work that he may do when
he is lying in his grave. Boston did; for, when
the ministry of his lips ended, the ministry of his
pen began. For years after his death, Thomas
Boston's books were the most popular and most
powerful works in Scotland ; and, by means of
them, the fragrance that had for so long filled the
Ettrick Valley was wafted far and wide. Whilst
Thomas Boston was lying in his grave, his in-
fluence was growing by leaps and bounds. Speaking
of one of the books. The Fourfold State, Dr. An-
drew Thomson, in his Introduction to Boston's Life
and Times, says that within a quarter of a century

Thomas Boston's Text 45

after its publication, it had found its way and was
eagerly read and pondered, over the Scottish Low-
lands. 'From St. Abb's Head to the remotest point
in Galloway it was to be seen side by side with the
Bible and Bunyan on the shelf in every peasant's
cottage. The shepherd bore it with him, folded in
his plaid, up among the silent hills; the ploughman
in the valleys refreshed his spirit with it, as with
heavenly manna, after his long day of toil. The
influence, which began with the humble classes,
ascended like a fragrance into the mansions of the
Lowland laird and the Border chief, and carried
with it a new and hallowed joy.' And, on the
authority of one who lived nearer to Boston's time,
he says that for three generations this book was
the instrument of more numerous conversions and
more extensive spiritual quickening than any other
volume he could name. And has not Dr. Thomas
McCrie, one of the greatest authorities on Scottish
life and literature, who was himself born in the same
little Border town in which Boston first saw the
light, spoken of The Fourfold State as a book that
has contributed more than any other work to mould
the religious sentiments of the Scottish people?

Now, where was this lamp lit, and by what flame
was it kindled? From infancy Boston was taught
to take religion seriously. Had not his father en-
dured imprisonment for conscience' sake, and had

46 A Bunch of Everlastings

not Thomas, as a little boy, sat with him in his cell
to help relieve his loneliness? But when the lad
was twelve years of age, the Rev. Henry Erskine,
a name that must always hold a charm to Scottish
folk, came into the Border Country and began to
preach. From every direction people flocked to
hear him. John Boston went, taking little Thomas
with him. They were deeply moved, and went
again. Then, one never-to-be-forgotten day, Mr.
Erskine cried out, 'Behold the Lamb of God that
iaketh away the sin of the world! Behold the Lamb
of God that taketh away the sin of the world!'
What mountainous words !

The Lamb! .... The Sin!

God! .... The World!

The Lamb of God!

The Sin of the World!

The Lamb that taketh away the Sin!

*By this,' says Boston, T judge God spake to me.
I know I was touched to the quick at the first hear-
ing, wherein I was like one amazed with some new
and strange thing. Sure I am I was in good
earnest concerned for a saving interest in Jesus
Christ. My soul went out after Him, and the place
of His feet was glorious in mine eyes.'

The day on which that stupendous pronouncement
was first made was the day on which the slow
evolution of prophecy reached its culmination and

Thomas Boston's Text 47

its climax. In the gray dawn of history a youth
had climbed Mount Moriah, walking by his father's
side, asking as he walked one pertinent and tragic
question : 'My father, behold the fire and the wood,
but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?'

'Where is the Lamhf

The question, once started, echoed down the ages
from generation to generation. For twenty cen-
turies it haunted the hearts of men. And then, one
day, the people were assembling at Jerusalem for
the Passover, the Feast of the Lamb that was
Slain. The thought of sacrifice, and especially of
the sacrifice of the Lamb, was in every mind. And,
as they flocked together to listen to the preaching of
a strange, prophetic figure from the desert, the
speaker caught sight of a Face in the crowd, a
Face such as earth had never seen before. And,
forsaking the beaten track of his discourse, he cried
out: 'Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away
the sin of the world!' The riddle of the ages was
read at last!

'Behold the Lamb!'

T once stood in the valley of the Rees River at
the head of Lake Wakatipu,' says Dr. Rutherford
Waddell, 'and looked up at the great glacier heights
of Mount Earnslaw. Far away up across the moun-
tain brow innumerable rills and streams of water
were pouring like silver bars down towards the

4$ A Bunch of Everlastings

pine forests that climb the mountain-side. Across
vast widths of snow and ice they converged their
multitudinous rills; and by the time they had
reached the forests they had united their streams
into one great torrent. This comes tumbling down,
forming the beautiful Lennox Waterfall, and then,
leaping forth, it hurries away hence to the plain,
singing the song of liberty and life. So all the
diverging streams of ancient thought and Hebrew
prophecy meet in one great announcement. The
long evolution of the ages finds its culmination at
last in a living Person : "Behold the Lamb of God
that taketh azvay the sin of the world!" ' Boston
heard Erskine repeat that stupendous declaration
in a little Border town, and all his heart stood up
to greet its deep and awful significance.

VII

But what is that profound significance? The
Lamb ! The Lamb of God ! The Lamb that taketh
away the Sin! What does it mean? The Lamb
stands for two things, two and no more. It is the
symbol of Innocence, and it is the symbol of Suf-
fering. These two factors in human experience —
Innocence and Suffering — are united in the symbol-
ism of the lamb; and they are united in the eternal
scheme of things. For the dark tragedy of human
guilt passes through two stages. There is the
preliminary stage: the stage in which the guilt of
the Guilty is the torture of the Innocent — the father

Thomas Boston's Text 49

heartbroken at his daughter's shame; the mother
weeping over the excesses of her dissolute boy. And
there is the subsequent stage, the stage in which the
innocence of the Innocent is the torture of the
Guilty — Legree tormented by the lock of his
mother's hair; Dombey racked in the day of his
ruin by the fact that 'every loving blossom he had
withered in his innocent daughter's heart was snow-
ing down in ashes on him.' The first of these prin-
ciples— the torture of the Innocent by the guilt of
the Guilty — led to Redemption. The second of these
principles — the torture of the Guilty by the inno-
cence of the Innocent — leads to Repentance. The
first led the Son of the Highest to become the Lamb
of God; the second led to the transformation in
the soul of Boston when the great revelation burst
upon him.

VIII

The startling proclamation that had so cap-
tivated his own heart became the keynote of
Boston's historic and epoch-making ministry. 'From
the time of my settling here,' he says, 'the great
thing I aimed at in my preaching was to impress
the people with a sense of their need of Christ.'
In his later years Boston became convinced that
a good sermon ought to be frequently repeated. He
himself preached one sermon again and again and
again. Its text was : 'Behold the Lamb of God that
taketh away the sin of the world!' And when the

50 A Bunch of Everlastings

people gathered that Sunday under the bedroom
window to hear his dying message, he still urged
them with many tears to fix their eyes and their
affections upon the Lamb of God. When Boston's
sun was setting in Scotland, Wesley's was rising in
England. It was in those days that Charles Wesley
sang:

Happy, if with my latest breath

I may but gasp His name ;
Preach Him to all, and cry in death,

'Behold, behold the Lamb I'

And whilst, in England, Charles Wesley coveted
for himself so sublime an experience, Thomas
Boston, in Scotland, actually tasted its felicity.

HUGH LATIMER'S TEXT

There is excitement in the streets of Lx)ndon!
Who is this upon whom the crowd is pressing as he
passes down the Strand? Women throw open the
windows and gaze admiringly out ; shopkeepers rush
from behind their counters to join the throng as it
approaches: apprentices fling aside their tools and,
from every lane and alley, pour into the street;
waggoners rein in their horses and leave them for a
moment unattended; the taverns empty as the pro-
cession draws near them! Everybody is anxious
to catch a glimpse of this man's face; to hear, if
possible, the sound of his voice; or, better still, to
clasp his hand as he passes. For this is Hugh
Latimer; the terror of evil-doers; the idol of the
common people; and, to use the phraseology of a
chronicler of the period, 'the honestest man in
England.' By sheer force of character he has
raised himself from a ploughman's cottage to a
bishop's palace — an achievement that, in the six-
teenth century, stands without precedent or parallel.
'My father was a yeoman,' he says, in the course
of a sermon preached before the King, 'my father
was a yeoman, and had no lands of his own; he

52 A Bunch of Everlastings

had a farm of three or four pounds a year at the
utmost, and hereupon he tilled so much as kept
half-a-dozen men. He had walk for a hundred
sheep; and my mother milked thirty kine. He
kept me at school, or else I had not been able to
have preached before the King's majesty now.'
Nor has his elevation spoiled him. He has borne
with him in his exaltations the spirit of the common
people. He feels as they feel; he thinks as they
think; he even speaks as they speak. It was said
of him, as of his Master, that the common people
heard him gladly. In cathedral pulpits and royal
chapels he speaks a dialect that the common people
can readily understand; he uses homely illustra-
tions gathered from the farm, the kitchen and the
counting-house ; he studiously eschews the pedantries
of the schoolmen and the subtleties of the theolo-
gians. His sermons are, as Macaulay says, 'the
plain talk of a plain man, who sprang from the
body of the people, who sympathized strongly with
their wants and their feelings, and who boldly
uttered their opinions.* It was on account of the
fearless way in which stout-hearted old Hugh ex-
posed the misdeeds of men in ermine tippets and
gold collars that the Londoners cheered him as he
walked down the Strand to preach at Whitehall,
struggled for a touch of his gown, and bawled,
'Have at them. Father Latimer!' There he goes,
then ; a man of sound sense, honest affection, earnest
purpose and sturdy speech; a man whose pale face.

Hugh Latimer's Text 53

stooping figure and emaciated frame show that it
has cost him something to struggle upwards from
the ploughshare to the palace ; a man who looks for
all the world like some old Hebrew prophet trans-
planted incongruously into the prosaic life of Lon-
don! He passes down the Strand with the people
surging fondly around him. He loves the people,
and is pleased with their confidence in him. His
heart is simple enough and human enough to find
the sweetest of all music in the plaudits that are
ringing in his ears. So much for London ; we must
go to Oxford !

There is excitement in the streets of Oxford!
Who is this upon whom the crowd is pressing as
he passes down from the Mayor's house to the open
ground in front of Balliol College? Again, women
are leaning out of the windows; shopkeepers are
forsaking their counters; apprentices are throwing
aside their tools; and drivers are deserting their
horses that they may stare at him. It is Hugh
Latimer again! He is a little thinner than when
we saw him in London; for he has exchanged a
palace for a prison. The people still press upon
him and make progress difficult; but this time they
crowd around him that they may curse him!
It is the old story of 'Hosannah!' one day and
*Away with Him! Crucify Him!' the next. The
multitude is a fickle master. Since we saw him in

54 A Bunch of Everlastings

the Strand, the crown has passed from one head
to another; the court has changed its ways to
gratify the whims of its new mistress; the Govern-
ment has swung round to match the moods of the
court; and the people, Hke sheep, have followed
their leaders. They are prepared now to crown
the men whom before they would have crucified,
and to crucify the men whom they would then have
crowned. But Hugh Latimer and his companion
— for this time he is not alone — are not of the
same accommodating temper. Hugh Latimer is
still 'the honestest man in England !' His conscience
is still his only monitor; his tongue is still free; his
soul is not for sale ! And so —

In Oxford town the faggots they piled,
With furious haste and with curses wild,
Round two brave men of our British breed,
Who dared to stand true to their speech and deed;
Round two brave men of that sturdy race,
Who with tremorless souls the worst can face ;
Round two brave souls who could keep their tryst
Through a pathway of fire to follow Christ.
And the flames leaped up, but the blinding smoke
Could not the soul of Hugh Latimer choke;
For, said he, 'Brother Ridley, be of good cheer,
A candle in England is lighted here,
Which by grace of God shall never go out!' —
And that speech in whispers was echoed about —
Latimer's Light shall never go out.
However the winds may blow it about.
Latimer's Light has come to stay
Till the trump of a coming judgement day.

'Bishop Ridley,' so runs the record, 'first entered

Hugh Latimer's Text 55

the lists, dressed in his episcopal habit; and, soon
after, Bishop Latimer, dressed, as usual, in his
prison garb. Master Latimer now suffered the
keeper to pull off his prison-garb and then he ap-
peared in his shroud. Being ready, he fervently
recommended his soul to God, and then he delivered
hirrtself to the executioner, saying to the Bishop of
London these prophetical words: "We shall this
day, my lord, light such a candle in England as shall
never be extinguished !" '

But it is time that we went back forty years or
so, to a time long before either of the processions
that we have just witnessed took place. We must
ascertain at what flame the light that kindled that
candle was itself ignited.

Ill

Very early in the sixteenth century, England was
visited by one of the greatest scholars of the
Renaissance, Desiderius Erasmus. After being
welcomed with open arms at the Universities, he
returned to the Continent and engrossed himself in
his learned researches. At Cambridge, however,
he had made a profound and indelible impression
on at least one of the scholars. Thomas Bilney,
familiarly known as 'Little Bilney,' was feeling, in
a vague and indefinite way, the emptiness of the
religion that he had been taught. He felt that
Erasmus possessed a secret that was hidden from
English eyes, and he vowed that, whatever it might

56 A Bunch of Everlastings

cost him, he would purchase every line that came
from the great master's pen. In France, Erasmus
translated the New Testament into Latin. The in-
genuity and industry of Bilney soon secured for
him a copy of the book. As to its effect upon him,
he shall speak for himself. 'My soul was sick,' he
says, 'and I longed for peace, but nowhere could
I find it. I went to the priests, and they appointed
me penances and pilgrimages; yet, by these things
my poor sick soul was nothing profited. But at
last I heard of Jesus. It was then, when first the
New Testament was set forth by Erasmus, that
the light came. I bought the book, being drawn
thereto rather by the Latin than by the Word of
God, for at that time I knew not what the Word of
God meant. And, on the first reading of it, as I
well remember, I chanced upon these words, "This
is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation,
that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sin-
ners, of whoM I am chief." That one sentence,
through God's inward working, did so lift up my
poor bruised spirit that the very bones within me
leaped for joy and gladness. It was as if, after a
long, dark night, day had suddenly broke!' But
what has all this to do with Hugh Latimer ?

In those days Latimer was preaching at Cam-
bridge, and all who heard him fell under the spell
of his transparent honesty and rugged eloquence.

Hugh Latimer's Text 57

Latimer was then the sturdy champion of the old
rehgion and the uncompromising foe of all who
were endeavouring to introduce the new learning.
Of all the friars, he was the most punctilious, the
most zealous, the most devoted. Bilney went to
hear him and fell in love with him at once. He
saw that the preacher was mistaken; that his eyes
had not been opened to the sublimities that had
flooded his own soul with gladness ; but he recog-
nised his sincerity, his earnestness and his resistless
power; and he longed to be the instrument of his
illumination. If only he could do for Latimter what
Aquila and Priscilla did for Apollos, and expound
unto him the way of God more perfectly ! It became
the dream and desire of Bilney's Hfe. 'O God,' he
cried, *I am but "Little Bilney," and shall never do
any great thing for Thee; but give me the soul of
that man, Hugh Latimer, and what wonders he
shall do in Thy most holy Name!'

Where there's a will there's a way! One day,
as Latimer descends from the pulpit, he passes so
close to Bilney that his robes almost brush the
student's face. Like a flash, a sudden inspiration
leaps to Bilney's mind. 'Prithee, Father Latimer,'
he whispers, 'may I confess my soul to thee?' The
preacher beckons, and, into the quiet room adjoin-
ing, the student follows.

Of all the strange stories that heartbroken peni-
tents have poured into the ears of Father-Confessors
since first the confessional was established, that was

58 A Bunch of Everlastings

the strangest ! Bilney falls on his knees at Latimer's
feet and allows his soul, pent up for so long, to utter
itself freely at last. He tells of the aching hunger
of his heart; he tells of the visit of Erasmus; he
tells of the purchase of the book; and then he tells
of the text. 'There it stood,' he says, the tears
standing in his eyes, 'the very word I wanted. It
seemed to be written in letters of light: "This is
a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation,
that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sin-
ners." O Father Latimer,' he cries, the passion of
his fervour increasing as the memory of his own
experience rushes back upon him, *I went to the
priests and they pointed me to broken cisterns that
held no water and only mocked my thirst! I bore
the load of my sins until my soul was crushed be-
neath the burden! And then I saw that "Christ
Jesu^ came into the world to save sinners, of whom
I am chief; and now, being justified by faith, I
have peace with God through our Lord Jesus
Christ I'

Latimer is taken by storm. He is completely
overwhelmed. He, too, knows the aching dissatis-
faction that Bilney has described. He has experi-
enced for years the same insatiable hunger, the
same devouring thirst. To the astonishment of
Bilney, Latimer rises and then kneels beside him.
The Father-Confessor seeks guidance from his
penitent! Bilney draws from his pocket the sacred
volume that has brought such comfort and such

Hugh Latimer's Text 59

rapture to his own soul. It falls open at the passage
that Bilney has read to himself over and over and
over again : ^This is a faithful saying, and worthy
of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the
world to save sinners, of whom I am chief/ The
light that never was on sea or shore illumines the
soul of Hugh Latimer, and Bilney sees that the
passionate desire of his heart has been granted him.
And from that hour Bilney and Latimer lived only
that they might unfold to all kinds and conditions
of men the unsearchable riches of Christ.

'This is a faithful saying!' That is the preacher's
comfort. In the course of a recent tour through
Western Australia, I was taken through the gold
diggings. And, near Kanowna, I was shown the
spot on which, years ago, there gathered one of
the largest and most extraordinary congregations
that ever assembled on this side of the world. It
was whispered all over the diggings that an enor-
mous nugget had been found and that Father Long,
the local priest, had seen it and knew exactly where
it was discovered. Morning, noon and night the
young priest was pestered by eager gold-hunters
for information; but to one and all his lips were
sealed. At last he consented to announce publicly
the exact locality of the wonderful find. At the
hour fixed men came from far and near, some on
horseback, some on camels, some in all kinds of

6o A Bunch of Everlastings

conveyances, and thousands on foot. It was the
largest gathering of diggers in the history of the
gold fields. At the appointed time Father Long ap-
peared, surveyed the great sea of bronzed and
bearded faces, and then announced that the 'Sacred
Nugget' had been found in the Lake Gwynne coun-
try. In a moment the crowd had vanished ! There
was the wildest stampede for the territory to which
the priest had pointed them. But as the days passed
by, the disappointed seekers, in twos and threes, came
dribbing wearily back. Not a glint of gold had been
seen by any of them! And then the truth flashed
upon them. The priest had been hoaxed! The
'Sacred Nugget' was a mass of common metal
splashed with gold paint! Father Long took the
matter bitterly to heart; he went to bed a broken
and humiliated man; and, a few months later, dis-
consolate, he died! It was a great day in Hugh
Latimer's life when he got among the 'faithful
sayings,' the sayings of which he was certain, the
sayings that could never bring to any confiding
hearer the heartbreak and disgust of disappointment.

'It is worthy of all acceptation!' It is worthy!
It is worthy of your acceptance, your Majesty, for
this proclamation craves no patronage ! It is worthy
of your acceptance, your Excellency, your Grace,
my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen all, for the gospel
asks no favours! It is worthy, worthy, worthy of

Hugh Latimer's Text 6i

the acceptance of you all! Hugh Latimer stood be-
fore kings and courtiers, and declared that 'this is
a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that
Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.'
Never once did he forget the dignity of his message :
it was faithful; it was worthy in its own right of
the acceptance of the lordliest; and he himself staked
his life upon it at the last!

VII

Dr. Archibald Alexander, of Princeton, was for
sixty years a minister of Christ; and for forty of
those years he was a Professor of Divinity. No
man in America was more revered or beloved. He
died on October 22, 1851. As he lay adying, he was
heard by a friend to say, 'All my theology is re-
duced now to this narrow compass : "This is a
faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that
Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners." '
In life and in death Hugh Latimer was of pretty
much the same mind.

JOHN BUNYAN'S TEXT

There is no doubt about John Bunyan's text. As
a lover carves his lady's name on trees, signs it in
mistake for his own, and mutters it in his sleep, so
Bunyan inscribes everywhere the text that wrought
his memorable deliverance. It crops up again and
again in all his writings. The characters in his
allegories, the dream-children of his fertile fancy,
repeat it to each other as though it were a password,
a talisman, a charm; he himself quotes it whenever
the shadow of an opportunity presents itself; if it
is not the text, it is at least the burden, of every
sermon that he preaches. It sings itself through
his autobiography like a repeating chorus, like an
echoing refrain. By its radiance he extricates him-
self from every gloomy valley and from every dark-
some path. Its joyous companionship beguiles all
his long and solitary tramps. It dispels for him the
loneliness of his dreary cell. When no other visitor
is permitted to approach the gaol, John Bunyan's
text comes rushing to his memory as though on
angel's wings. It sings to him its song of confi-
dence and peace every morning; its music scatters

John Bunyan's Text 63

the gloom of every night. It is the friend of his
fireside; the companion of his sohtude; the comrade
of his travels ; the light of his darkness. It illumines
his path amidst the perplexities of life; it wipes
away his tears in the day of bitter sorrow; and it
smooths his pillow in the hour of death. When a
man habitually wears a diamond pin, you uncon-
sciously associate the thought of his face with the
thought of the gem that scintillates beneath it. In
the same way, nobody can have become in the slight-
est degree familiar with John Bunyan without
habitually associating the thought of his honest and
rugged personality with the thought of the text that
he made so peculiarly his own.

On the opening pages of Pilgrim's Progress we
come upon the principal character, all clothed in
rags, a heavy burden upon his back, greatly dis-
tressed in mind, walking in the fields and crying,
'What must I do to be saved ?'

*Do you see yonder shining light?' asks Evan-
gelist.

*I think I do,' replied the wretched man.

'Keep that light in your eye and go up directly
thereto; so shalt thou see a gate, at which, when
thou knockest, it shall be told thee what thou shalt
do!'

The man comes in due course to the gate and
knocks many times, saying:

64 A Bunch of Everlastings

May I now enter here? Will he within
Open to sorry me, though I have been
An undeserving rebel? Then shall I
Not fail to sing his lasting praise on high.

*I am willing with all my heart/ replies Good-
Will, the keeper of the gate, 'we make no objec-
tions against any. Notwithstanding all that they
have done before they come hither, they are in no
wise cast out!'

So Christian enters in at the gate and sets out on
pilgrimage. And there, at the very beginning of his
new life, stands the first vague but unmistakeable
suggestion of John Bunyan's text.

'In no wise cast out!'

'Him that cometh to Me, I will in no wise cast
out!'

There, over the portal of the pilgrim path, stands
the text that gave John Bunyan to the world.

Ill

It stands over the very portal of his pilgrim's
path for the simple reason that it stands at the very
beginning of his own religious experience. Let us
turn from his allegory to his autobiography,

'In no wise cast out!' he exclaims, 'Oh, the com-
fort that I found in that word!'

'In no wise cast out!'

We all know the story of the wretchedness which

John Biinyan's Text 65

that great word dispelled. It is one of the most
moving records, one of the most pathetic plaints,
in the language, Bunyan felt that he was a blot
upon the face of the universe. He envied the
toads in the grass by the side of the road, and the
crows that cawed in the ploughed lands by which
he passed. They, he thought, could never know
such misery as that which bowed him down. *I
walked,* he says, in a passage that Macaulay felt
to be specially eloquent and notable, *I walked to
a neighbouring town, and sat down upon a settle
in the street, and fell into a very deep pause about
the most fearful state my sin had brought me to;
and, after long musing, I lifted up my head; but
methought I saw as if the sun that shineth in the
heavens did grudge to give me light; and as if
the very stones in the street, and tiles upon the
houses, did band themselves against me. Me-
thought that they all combined together to banish
me out of the world. I was abhorred of them, and
unfit to dwell among them, because I had sinned
against the Saviour. Oh, how happy now was
every creature over me, for they stood fast and kept
their station. But I was gone and lost !*

^Gone and lost!'

'Gone and lost!'

It was whilst he was thus lamenting his hopeless
condition that the light broke. 'This scripture,'
he says, *did most sweetly visit my soul : "and him
that Cometh to Me, I will in no wise cast out." O,

66 A Bunch of Everlastings

what did I now see in that blessed sixth of John!
O, the comfort that I had from this word!'

'In no wise cast out!'

'Him that cometh to Me, I will in no wise cast
out!'

What was it that he saw in 'that blessed sixth
of John'? What was the comfort that he found
so lavishly stored there? The matter is worth in-
vestigating.

In his pitiful distress, there broke upon the soul
of John Bunyan a vision of the infinite approach-
ability of Jesus. That is one of the essentials of
the faith. It was for no other purpose that the
Saviour of men left the earth and enshrined Him-
self in invisibility. 'Suppose,' says Henry Drum-
mond, 'suppose He had not gone away; suppose He
were here now. Suppose He were still in the Holy
Land, at Jerusalem. Every ship that started for
the East would be crowded with Christian pilgrims.
Every train flying through Europe would be
thronged with people going to see Jesus. Every
mail-bag would be full of letters from those in
difficulty and trial. Suppose you are in one of those
ships. The port, when you arrive after the long
voyage, is blocked with vessels of every flag. With
much difficulty you land, and join one of the long
trains starting for Jerusalem. Far as the eye can

John Bunyan's Text 67

reach, the caravans move over the desert in an end-
Iiess stream. As you approach the Holy City you see
a dark, seething mass stretching for leagues and
leagues between you and its glittering spires. You
have come to see Jesus; but you will never see Him.'
You are crowded out. Jesus resolved that this
should never be. 'It is expedient for you,' he said,
'that I go away.' He went away in order to make
Himself approachable! John Bunyan saw to his
delight that it is possible for the most unworthy
to go direct to the fountain of grace.

'Him that cometh to Me!'

*Him that cometh to Me, I will in no wise cast
out!'

John Bunyan's text was a revelation to him of
the approachahility of Jesus.

In his pitiful distress there broke upon the soul
of John Bunyan a vision of the infinite catholicity
of Jesus. Therein lay for him the beauty of the
text. In the darkest hours of his wretchedness he
never had any doubt as to the readiness of the
Saviour to welcome to His grace certain fortunate
persons. Holy Master Gifford, for example, and
the poor women whom he overheard discussing the
things of the kingdom of God as they sat in the sun
beside their doors, and the members of the little
church at Bedford; concerning the salvation of these

68 A Bunch of Everlastings

people Bunyan was as clear as clear could be. But
from such felicity he was himself rigidly excluded.
'About this time/ he says, 'the state of happiness
of these poor people at Bedford was thus, in a kind
of a vision, presented to me. I saw as if they were
on the sunny side of some high mountain, there
refreshing themselves with the pleasant beams of
the sun, while I was shivering and shrinking in
the cold, afflicted with frost, snow, and dark clouds.
Methought also, betwixt me and them, I saw a wall
that did compass about this mountain. Now through
this wall my soul did greatly desire to pass; con-
cluding that, if I could, I would there also comfort
myself with the heat of their sun.' But he could
find no way through or round or over the wall.
Then came the discovery of the text. 'This scrip-
ture did most sweetly visit my soul; "and him that
Cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out." Oh ! the
comfort that I had from his word, in no wise! As
who should say, "By no means, for nothing what-
ever he hath done." But Satan would greatly la-
bour to pull this promise from me, telling me that
Christ did not mean me and such as me, but sinners
of another rank, that had not done as I had done.
But I would answer him again. "Satan, here is in
these words no such exception ; but him that cometh,
him, any him; him that cometh to Me I will in no
wise cast out." *

'Him that cometh!'

'Any him! Any him!'

John Bunyan's Text 69

'Him that cometh I will in no wise cast out!'

Like the gate that swings open on hearing the
magic 'sesame'; Hke the walls that fell at Jericho
when the blast of the trumpets arose; the wall round
Bunyan's mountain fell with a crash before that
great and golden word. 'Hitn that cometh to Me
I zvill in no wise cast out!' The barriers had van-
ished ! The way was open !

'Him that cometh!'

'Any him! Any him!'

'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast
out!' Here was a vision of the catholicity of Jesus !

In his pitiful distress there broke upon the soul
of John Bunyan a vision of the infinite reliability
of Jesus. It was the deep, strong accent of certainty
that ultimately captivated all his heart. Times with-
out number, he had come with a great 'perhaps'
trembling on his lips. 'Often,' he tells us, 'when I
had been making to the promise, I have seen as if
the Lord would refuse my soul for ever, I was
often as if I had run upon the pikes, and as if the
Lord had thrust at me to keep me from him, as with
a flaming sword. Then would I think of Esther,
who went to petition the king contrary to the law.
I thought also of Benhadad's servants, who went
with ropes under their heads to their enemies for
mercy. The woman of Canaan, that would not be
daunted, though called 'dog' by Christ; and the

70 A Bunch of Everlastings

man that went to borrow bread at midnight, were
also great encouragements to me.* But each was,
after all, only the encouragement of a possibility, of
a probability, of a 'perhaps.'

Perhaps! Perhaps! Perhaps!

In contrast with all this, the text spoke out its
message bravely. 'Him that cometh to Me I will
in no wise cast out!'

'In no wise! In no wise! In no wise!'

'Oh! the comfort that I had from this word:
"in no wise!" ... If ever Satan and I did strive
for any word of God in all my life, it was for this
good word of Christ: he at one end and I at the
other. Oh! what work we made! It was for this
in John, I say, that we did so tug and strive; he
pulled, and I pulled; but God be praised, I over-
came him ; I got sweetness from it !' He passed at
a bound from the Mists of the Valley to the Sun-
light of the Summit. He had left the shadow-
land of 'perhaps' for the luxurious sunshine of a
glowing certainty. 'With joy,' he says, 'I told my
wife: "Oh, now / know, I know, I know!" That
was a good night to me ; I have had but few better.
Christ was a precious Christ to my soul that night;
I could scarce lie in my bed for joy and grace and
triumph !'

Perhaps! Perhaps! Perhaps!

In no wise! In no wise! In no wise!

I know! I know! I knoiv!
Thus Bunyan found in the radiance that streamed

John Bunyan's Text 71

from 'that blessed sixth of John,' a revelation of
the reliability of Jesus !

VII

Those who have studied Butler's Analogy of
Religion will recall the story that, in the introductory
pages, Mr. Malleson tells of the illustrious author.
When Bishop Butler lay upon his deathbed, Mr.
Malleson says, an overwhelming sense of his own
sinfulness filled him with a terrible concern. His
chaplain bent over him and tried to comfort him.

'You know, sir,' said the chaplain, 'that Jesus
is a great Saviour!'

'Yes,' replied the terror-stricken bishop. *I know
that He died to save. But how shall I know that
He died to save mef

'My Lord,' answered the chaplain, 'it is written
that him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast
out!'

'True !' exclaimed the dying man, 'I am surprised
that, though I have read that scripture a thousand
times over, I never felt its virtue until this moment.
Now I die happy !'

And he did.

So, too, pillowing his head upon the selfsame
words, did Bunyan. 'His end,' says Froude, 'was
characteristic. It was brought on by exposure
when he was engaged in an act of charity. A
quarrel had broken out in a family at Reading with
which Bunyan had some acquaintance. A father

73 A Bunch of Everlastings

had taken some ofifence at his son, and threatened
to disinherit him. Bunyan undertook a journey on
horseback from Bedford to Reading in the hope of
reconciUng them. He succeeded, but at the cost of
his life. Returning by way of London, he was
overtaken on the road by a storm of rain, and was
drenched before he could find shelter. The chill,
falling on a constitution already weakened by illness,
brought on fever. In ten days he was dead. His
last words were : "Take me, for I come to Thee !" '

7 come to Thee! I come to Thee!'

'Him that cometh to Me, I will in no wise cast
out!'

The words that had lit up the path of his pil-
grimage illumined also the valley of the shadow of
death! The words that opened to him the realms
of grace opened also the gates of glory! The words
that had welcomed him at the Wicket Gate wel-
comed him also to the Celestial City!

VII
SIR WALTER SCOTT'S TEXT

It was a very happy bridegroom and a very happy
bride that came to Lasswade Cottage early in 1798.
They had been married on Christmas Eve; and,
after a few days in Edinburgh, had come on to this
pretty little home on the banks of the Esk. Walter
Scott was twenty-six; not one of his books had
been written; no thought of fame had visited him;
he dreamed only the happiness that must be his in
the new life that he had so recently entered; whilst
she tells him that she is sure that he will rise in his
profession, become a judge, and die immensely
wealthy. Scott vows that he will make his riverside
home the sweetest spot beneath the stars. He takes
infinite pains in laying out the gardens and the
lawns. In the years that followed he never looked
upon any of his novels or biographies with greater
pride than that with which he surveyed the mystic
arch that he built with his own hands over the
gate that opened on the Edinburgh Road. In this
romantic home he spent some of the sunniest years
of his life; and, as Lockhart points out, it was
amongst these delicious solitudes that he produced
the works that laid the imperishable foundations of

74 A Bunch of Everlastings

all his fame. As you stroll about this pretty garden,
and mark the diligence with which this young hus-
band of ours has trained all his flowers and creep-
ers, I would have you step out on to ihe lawn. And
here, in the centre of the lawn, is a sundial. Our
happy young bridegroom ordered it before his mar-
riage, and it has been made to his design. See
how carefully he has planted the creepers around
it! And, according to custom, he has had a motto
engraved upon the dial, a motto of his own selec-
tion. It consists of three Greek words : 'The Night
Cometh!' Scott was not morbid; he was a great
human. But in the sunshine of life's morning he
solemnly reminded himself that high noon is not a
fixture. The brightest day wears away to evening
at last. He horrified his bride-elect by arranging,
before his marriage, for a place of burial, 'What
an idea of yours,' she says in a letter written a few
days before the wedding, 'what an idea of yours
was that to mention where you wish to have your
bones laid ! If you were married I should think
you were tired of me. A very pretty compliment
before marriage! I hope sincerely that I shall not
live to see that day. If you always have those
cheerful thoughts, how very pleasant and gay you
must be!' Poor, distressed little bride! But she
soon found that her apprehensions were unfounded.
Her lover was not as gloomy as she feared.
He was reminding himself that the sunshine does
not last for ever, it is true; but, just because the

Sir Walter Scott's Text 75

sunshine does not last for ever, he was vowing that
he would make the most of it. *The Night Cometh,'
he wrote upon the sundial on the lawn. *The night
comethf therefore revel in the daylight whilst it
lasts! 'I must work the works of Him that sent
me whilst it is day; the night cometh when no man
can work.'

The inscription on Sir Walter Scott's sundial
must have been suggested by the inscription on
Dr. Johnson's watch. Scott was a great admirer
of Johnson. In some respects there is a strong
resemblance between them. Sir Alfred Dale, Vice-
Chancellor of Liverpool University, recently re-
ferred to them as *two of the most heroic and,
at the same time, most pathetic figures in the annals
of our literature.' Boswell's Life of Johnson, and
Lockhart's Life of Scott are, by common consent,
the two greatest biographies in the language. The
former was a new book, and was still the talk of
the town, in the days of Scott's courtship and mar-
riage. And in that noble record of a noble life
Scott had read Boswell's account of the glimpse
that he once caught of the old doctor's watch. As
Dr. Johnson drew it from his pocket one day, Bos-
well noticed that on its face it bore a Greek in-
scription. The inscription consisted of the three
Greek words, 'The Night Cometh!' It reminded
the doctor, whenever he consulted his watch, that

76 A Bunch of Everlastings

the daylight does not last for ever. 'Work whilst
it is day' the watch seemed to say, 'for the night
Cometh when no man can work!'

Ill

It is 1 83 1. Scott is sixty now. It is thirty-three
years since we saw him walking on the lawn at
Lass wade Cottage with his bride. Then none of
his books were written; now they are all complete.
Fame and honour are most richly his. His poor
bride, however, had her wish. 'The burial of your
bones!' she wrote, in pretty scorn, in the midst
of her preparations for the wedding. 'I hope sin-
cerely that I shall not live to see that day!' She
did not. She has been five years dead. The bril-
liant sunshine of that early day has vanished; life
is wearing towards its eventide. 'The Night
Cometh!' Sir Walter is spending a day with old
friends at Douglas. There is a sadness on his spirit
that nothing can dispel; and once or twice, as he
strides across old familiar landscapes, his compan-
ions catch the glint of tears upon his cheek. It
has been agreed that there shall be no company but
friends of old standing, and among these is Mr.
Elliott Lockhart, whom Scott has not seen for many
years. Since they last met, both men have been
very ill. In the old days they followed the hounds
together, and Lockhart was as handsome a speci-
men of a Border gentleman as ever cheered a
hunting field. 'When they met now,' says the

Sir Walter Scott's Text 77

biographer, 'each saw his own case glassed in the
other, and neither of their manly hearts could well
contain itself as they embraced.' They part at
night, Scott promising to call on his old friend in
the course of his own homeward journey. 'But
next morning, at breakfast, came a messenger to
inform us that Mr. Lockhart, on returning to his
own house, fell down in a fit, and that his life was
despaired of. Immediately, although he had in-
tended to remain two days. Sir Walter drew his
host aside, and besought him to lend him horses
as far as Lanark, for that he must set off with the
least possible delay. He would listen to no per-
suasions. *No, William,' he said, 'this is a sad
warning. I must home to work while it is called
day; for the night cometh when no man can work.
I put that text many a year ago on my dialstone,
but it often preached in vain.' It may have done.
But anybody who surveys the long row of noble
classics with which he has enriched our literature
will feel that it must still more often have preached
with remarkable effect.

The Night!

The Night Cometh!

Was Sir Walter justified in reminding himself,
amidst the dazzling sunshine of his wedding bliss,
that the night cometh? Was old Dr. Johnson wise
in confronting himself with that stern truth when-

78 A Bunch of Everlastings

ever he consulted his watch? Why not? Is the
night an ugly thing? I recall a very familiar in-
cident in the life of Thomas Carlyle. One lovely
evening he and Leigh Hunt, the poet, strolled off
together amidst scenery that was full of rugged
grandeur and exquisite charm. Presently the stars
shone out, and added immeasurably to the glory
of the night. Both men gazed upon the heavens
for some moments in silence; and then the poet,
to whose soul they had been whispering of peace
and happiness and love, burst into the rapturous
exclamation, 'God the Beautiful!' Immediately,
Carlyle, seeing only the dread majesty of heaven,
sprang to his feet and exclaimed, 'God the Terrible!'
And both were right. The Night is Beautiful as
God is Beautiful! The Night is Terrible as God is
Terrible! Carlyle dreaded the Night as Scott
dreaded it, and as Johnson dreaded it. They all
three trembled lest the Night should fall before they
had finished the work which they had been ap-
pointed to do. 'The only happiness that a brave
man ever troubles himself much about,' I find
Carlyle saying, *is happiness enough to get his work
done. Not 'T can't eat !" but "I can't work !" that
is the burden of all wise complaining men. It is,
after all, the one unhappiness of a man that he
cannot work; that he cannot get his destiny as a
man fulfilled. Behold, the day is passing swiftly
away, our life is passing over; and the night cometh
wherein no man can zvork!' And who can forget

Sir Walter Scott's Text 79

those sledge-hammer sentences with which he con-
cludes his 'Everlasting Yea' ? *I say now to myself,
Produce! Produce! Were it but the pitifullest
infinitesimal fraction of a Product, produce it, in
God's name! 'Tis the utmost thou hast in thee;
out with it, then! Up; up! Whatsoever thy hand
findeth to do, do it with thy whole might! Work
while it is called To-day; for the Night cometh,
wherein no man can work!' And so twice, at least,
I find the Sage of Chelsea emphasising the text that
made the Wizard of the North.

'The Night Cometh!' says Dr. Johnson, and he
has the words inscribed upon the face of his watch.

'The Night Cometh!' says Sir Walter Scott, and
he has the words engraved on the sundial on the
lawn at Lasswade Cottage.

'The Night Cometh!' says Thomas Carlyle in
the pages of his first book, a book that was written
among the mosshags of Craigenputtock before the
world had even heard his name. 'Work while it is
called To-day; for the Night cometh, wherein no
man can work.'

And these three — Johnson, Scott and Carlyle —
became three of the most prodigious workers of all
history.

'The Night Cometh!' It came to Dr. Johnson,
the Night that he had dreaded for so long! 'The
infirmities of age,' says Macaulay, 'were creeping

8o A Bunch of Everlastings

fast upon him. That inevitable event of which he
never thought without horror was brought near to
him; and his whole life was darkened by the shadow
of death.' It is not pleasant reading. Let us turn
the page ! And what is this ? 'When at length the
moment, dreaded through so many years, came
close, the dark cloud passed away from Johnson's
mind. His temper became unusually patient and
gentle; he ceased to think with terror of death, and
of that which lies beyond death ; and he spoke much
of the mercy of God and of the propitiation of
Christ.' His faith triumphed over all his fears;
he talked with rapture of the love of God; he
pointed his friends to the Cross; and he confi-
dently resigned his soul to his Saviour. *The Night
Cometh!' he had said to himself with a shudder,
over and over and over again. But when it came,
that night was as tranquil as an infant's slumber
and illumined by a million stars. The night that
follows a great day's work well done is never a
very terrible affair.

'The Night Cometh!' It came to Sir Walter
Scott, the Night of which the sundial had spoken
so effectively and so long. We have all dwelt with
lingering fondness on that closing scene. Here he
is, at Abbots ford, surrounded by his grandchildren
and his dogs. He is too feeble to rise, but, at his
desire, they wheel him round the lawns in a bath-

Sir Walter Scott's Text 81

chair. He strokes the hair of the children; pats
the dogs on the heads; and pauses to admire his
favourite roses.

'I have seen much in my time,' he whispers softly,
'but nothing like my ain house — give me one turn
more !'

Exhausted by his ride, and by the tumult of
emotions that it has awakened, the dying man is
put to bed. Next morning he asks to be wheeled
into the library. They place his chair against the
central window that he may look down on the
shining waters of the Tweed. He glances round
upon the shelves containing his thousands of be-
loved books.

'Read to me !' he says to Lockhart.

'From what book shall I read?'

'Need you ask? There is but one!'

Lockhart takes down the Bible, and opens it at
the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel of John.

'Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God,
believe also in Me. In My Father's house are many
mansions; if it zvere not so, I woidd have told you.
I go to prepare a place for you . . .' And so on.
The matchless cadences that have soothed and sof-
tened and sweetened a million deathbeds fall like a
foretaste of the eternal harmonies upon the sick
man's ear.

'This is a great comfort — * great comfort,' he
murmurs.

He lingers for a while; but the atmosphere of

82 A Bunch of Everlastings

that conversation by the Hbrary window enfolds
him to the last. The Night comes; and with the
Night come weariness and restfulness and tired
hands gently folded.

VII

There is only one way of preparing for the night.
We must work! That is what Jesus said. 'We
must work while it is called To-day; the Night
Cometh when no man can work!' A good day's
work means a good night's rest. Johnson and Scott
and Carlyle had learned that secret, but it was from
Him that they learned it. And they became the men
that they were because they took His words and
engraved them on their watches and on their sun-
dials. Yes, on their watches and on their sundials —
and on their hearts!

VIII
OLIVER CROMWELL'S TEXT

Oliver Cromwell ranks among the giants. Mr.
Frederic Harrison sets his name among the four
greatest that our nation has produced. Carlyle's
guffaw upon hearing this pretty piece of patronage
would have sounded like a thunderclap! Four, in-
deed ! Carlyle would say that the other three would
look like a trio of travelling dwarfs grouped about a
colossus when they found themselves in the com-
pany of Oliver Cromwell. Carlyle can see nothing
in our history, nor in any other, more impressive
than the spectacle of this young farmer leaving his
fields in Huntingdonshire, putting his plough in the
shed, and setting out for London to hurl the king
from his throne, to dismiss the Parliament, and to
reconstitute the country on a new and better basis.
He was the one Strong Man ; so much stronger than
all other men that he bent them to his will and
dominated the entire situation. Cromwell made
history wholesale. How? That is the question —
How? And what if, in our search for an answer
to that pertinent question, we discover that it was
by means of a textf Let us go into the matter.

84 A Bunch of Everlastings

My suspicions in this direction were first aroused
by reading a letter that Cromwell wrote to his
cousin, Mrs. St. John, before his public career had
begun. In this letter he refers to himself as *a poor
creature.' *I am sure,' he says, 'that I shall never
earn the least mite.' Here is strange language for
a man who, confident of his resistless strength, will
soon be overturning thrones and tossing crowns
and kingdoms hither and thither at his pleasure!
Is there nothing else in the letter that may help us
to elucidate the mystery? There is! He goes on
to tell his cousin that, after all, he does not entirely
despair of himself. Just one ray of hope has shone
upon him, one star has illumined the blackness of
his sky. 'One beam in a dark place/ he says, 'hath
much refreshment in it!' He does not tell his cousin
what that ray of hope is; he does not name that
solitary star; he does not go into particulars as to
that 'one beam in a dark place.' But we, for our
part, must prosecute our investigations until we have
discovered it.

Ill

It is sometimes best to start at the end of a
thing and to work backwards to the beginning.
We will adopt that plan in this instance. One who
was present at the closing scene has graphically
described it for us. 'At Hampton Court,' he says,

Oliver Cromwell's Text 85

'being sick nigh unto death, and in his bed-chamber,
Cromwell called for his Bible and desired an hon-
ourable and godly person to read unto him
that passage in the fourth of Philippians which
saith, "/ can do all things through Christ that
strengtheneth me." Which read, he observed, "This
scripture did once save my life, when my eldest
son, poor Robert, died, which went as a dagger to
my heart, indeed it did !" '

This does not tell us much; but it sets our feet
in the path that may lead to more. And at any
rate it makes clear to us what that 'one beam' was
that so often had much refreshment in it. 7 can
do all things through Christ that strengtheneth me.'

Groping our way back across the years by the
aid of the hint given us in those dying words, we
come upon that dark and tragic day, nineteen years
earlier, when the 'son of good promise' died. Un-
fortunately, the exact circumstances attending the
death of the young man have never been recorded.
Even the date is shrouded in mystery. Nobody
knows in which battle he fell. Perhaps the father
was too full of grief and bitterness to write for us
that sad and tragic tale. All that we know is what
he told us on his deathbed. He says that 'it went
like a dagger to my heart, indeed it did' ; and he
says that it brought to his aid the text — the 'one
beam in a dark place' — that saved his life. It was

86 A Bunch of Everlastings

not the first time, as we shall see, that that animating
and arousing word had come, like a relieving army
entering a beleaguered city, to his deliverance. But
the pathos of that heart-breaking yet heart-healing
experience impressed itself indelibly upon his mem-
ory; the tale was written in tears; it rushed back
upon him as he lay a-dying; and very often, in the
years that lay between his son's death and his own,
he feelingly referred to it. In July, 1644, ^o^ ^^"
ample, I find him writing a letter of sympathy to
Colonel Valentine Walton, whose son has also fallen
on the field of battle. And in this noble yet tender
epistle, Cromwell endeavours to lead the stricken
father to the fountains of consolation at which he
has slaked his own burning thirst. 'Sir,' he says,
'God hath taken away your eldest son by a cannon-
shot. You know my own trials this way, but the
Lord supported me. I remembered that my boy
had entered into the happiness we all pant for and
live for. There, too, is your precious child, full of
glory, never to know sin or sorrow any more. He
was a gallant young man, exceedingly gracious.
God give you His comfort ! You may do all things
through Christ that strengthcncth us. Seek that,
and you shall easily bear your trial. The Lord be
your strength!'

7 can do all things through Christ that strength-
cncth me!'

'This scripture,' he says, as he lies upon his death-
bed, 'did once save my life!'

Oliver Cromwell's Text 87

'Seek that!' he says to Colonel Walton, 'seek that!
seek that!'

But we must go back further yet. We are tracing
the stream, but we have not reached the fountain-
head. That deathbed testimony at Hampton Court
was delivered in 1658. It was in 1639, ^^ there-
abouts, that Robert, his eldest son, was lying dead.
On each of these occasions the text wonderfully
supported him. But, in each case, it came to him
as an old friend and not as a new acquaintance.
For it was in 1638 — the year before Robert's death
and twenty years before the father's — that Crom-
well wrote to his cousin, Mrs. St. John, about the
'one beam in a dark place that hath such exceedingly
great refreshment in it.' When, then, did that
beam break upon his darksome path for the first
time?

Carlyle thinks that it was in 1623. Cromwell
was then in his twenty- fourth year, with all his life
before him. But we may as well let Carlyle speak
for himself. 'At about this time took place,' he
says, 'what Cromwell, with unspeakable joy, would
name his conversion. Certainly a grand epoch for
a man; properly the one epoch; the turning-point
which guides upwards, or guides downwards, him
and his activities for evermore! Wilt thou join
with the Dragons; wilt thou join with the Gods?
Oliver was henceforth a Christian man; believed in

88 A Bunch of Everlastings

God, not on Sundays only, but on all days, in all
places, and in all cases.'

In 1623 it was, then: but how? Piecing the
scraps together, a mere hint here and a vague sug-
gestion there, I gather that it was somewhat in this
way. In 1623 all things were rushing pellmell to-
wards turgid crisis, wild tumult and red revolution.
At home and abroad the outlook was as black as
black could be. The world wanted a man, a good
man, a great man, a strong man, to save it. Every-
body saw the need; but nobody could see the man.
Down in Huntingdonshire a young farmer leans on
the handles of his plough.

'The world needs a man, a good man, a great
man, a strong man !' says his Reason. And then he
hears another voice.

'Thou art the man!' cries his Conscience, with
terrifying suddenness; and his hands tremble as
they grasp the plough.

That evening, as he sits beside the fire, his young
wife opposite him, and little Robert in the cot by his
side, he takes down his Bible and reads. He turns
to the epistle to the Philippians, at the closing chap-
ter. He is amazed at the things that, by the grace
divine, Paul claims to have learned and achieved.

'It's true, Paul,' he exclaims, 'that you have
learned this and attained to this measure of
grace; but what shall 7 do? Ah, poor creature,
it is a hard, hard lesson for me to take out ! I find
it so!'

Oliver Cromwell's Text 89

Poring over the sacred volume, however, he
makes the discovery of his Hfetime, *I came,'
he says, *to the thirteenth verse, where Paul saith,
"I can do all things through Christ which strength-
eneth me." Then faith began to work, and my
heart to find comfort and support; and I said to
myself, "He that was Paul's Christ is my Christ
too!" And so I drew water out of the Wells of
Salvation !'

And now we have reached the fountain-head
at last!

And so the clodhopper became the king! It was
the text that did it! Considered apart from the
text, the life of Cromwell is an insoluble mystery,
a baffling enigma. But take one good look at the
text: observe the place that it occupied in Crom-
well's heart and thought: and everything becomes
plain. 'That such a man, with the eye to see and
with the heart to dare, should advance, from post
to post, from victory to victory, till the Huntingdon
Farmer became, by whatever name you call him,
the acknowledged Strongest Man in England, vir-
tually the King of England, requires,' says Carlyle,
*no magic to explain it.' Of course not! The text
explains it. For see !

What is a king? In his French Revolution,
Carlyle says that the very word 'king' comes from
Kon-ning Can-ning, the Man Who Can, the Man

90 A Bunch of Everlastings

Who is Able ! And that is precisely the burden of
the text.

'/ can do all things through Christ which strength-
eneth me' ; so the Authorised Version has it.

'In Him who strengthens me I am able for any-
thing'; so Dr. Moffatt translates the words.

'For all things I am strong in Him who makes
me able'; thus Bishop Moule renders it.

A King, says Carlyle, is an Able Man, a Strong
Man, a Man who Can. Here is a ploughman who
sees that the world is perishing for want of just
such a King. How can he, weak as he is, become
the world's Strong Man, the world's Able Man, the
world's King? The text tells him.

7 can do all things,' he cries, 'through Him that
strengtheneth me!'

The Strong Man was made and the world was
saved.

VII

A man — at any rate such a man as Cromwell —
can never be content to enjoy such an experience
as this alone. No man can read the Life or Letters
of the Protector without being touched by his
solicitude for others. He is forever anxious that
his kindred and friends should drink of those
wondrous waters that have so abundantly refreshed
and invigorated him. After quoting his text to
Colonel Walton, he urges him to seek that same
strengthening grace which he himself has received.

Oliver Cromwell's Text 91

'Seek that!' he says; 'seek that!'

It is the keynote of all his correspondence. *I
hope/ he writes to the Mayor of Hursley in 1650,
'I hope you give my son good counsel; I believe he
needs it. He is in the dangerous time of his age,
and it is a very vain world. O how good it is to
close with Christ betimes ! There is nothing else
worth looking after !'

'Seek that strength!' he says to Colonel Walton.

'Seek that Sazdour!' he says to his wayward son.

'Seek that which will really satisfy!' he says to his
daughter.

It always seems to me that the old Puritan's
lovely letter to that daughter of his, the letter from
which I have just quoted, is the gem of Carlyle's
great volume. Bridget was twenty-two at the time.
'Your sister,' her father tells her, 'is exercised with
some perplexed thoughts. She sees her own vanity
and carnal mind, and bewailing it, she seeks after
what will satisfy. And thus to be a seeker is to be
of the best sect next to a finder, and such an one
shall every faithful humble seeker be at the end.
Happy seeker ; happy finder ! Dear heart, press on !
Let not husband, let not anything cool thy affections
after Christ!'

With which strong, tender, fatherly words from
the old soldier to his young daughter we may very
well take our leave of him.

FRANCIS XAVIER'S TEXT

It is one of the most stirring dramas of the faith
— a drama in three acts,

Scene: * Neath the Shadow of the Pyrenees.

He is a gay young cavalier. It is the golden age
of Spanish story. Ferdinand and Isabella have
brought the whole world to their feet. Castile
speaks; the peoples tremble; no dog dares bark.
Spain is mistress of mart and of main. Columbus
has just added a new hemisphere to her wide do-
minions. The atmosphere of Europe is trilling
with music and tingling with sensation. And, in
the very year in which the discoverer of America
died, our cavalier is born. His home — a splendid
palace — adorns the pine-clad slopes of the stately
Pyrenees. Its turrets seem to point proudly to the
snow-clad heights that glitter gloriously above. He
was cradled in the lap of luxury. He caught the
spirit of the romantic period, and flung himself with
a will into its revelries and chivalries. Life becomes
a frolic to him. He is a champion in every tussle
for the trophies of the field ; he is first in every con-

Francis Xavier's Text 93

test for the laurels of the schools. In running and
in fencing, in singing and in dancing, he is without
a rival. The chalice of life sparkles as he lifts it
to his lips, and his eyes gleam as he quaffs the
intoxicating cup. In camp, in castle and in court
none are more admired, more applauded, more be-
loved. He is the darling of society. And so, amid
scenes of splendour and of gaiety, denied nothing
that can minister to his vanity or increase his de-
light, five-and-thirty years whirl themselves merrily
away.

Scene: By the Banks of the Seine.

He is in Paris. Even now, in the early part of
the sixteenth century, it is a centre of gaiety. He
is in his thirty-sixth year. His enthusiasm for
pleasure has yielded somewhat to his thirst for
knowledge, and his love of learning has begotten a
laudable desire to teach. He is lecturing; and
among his hearers a strange, ungainly figure hovers
in the background. This student of his is a man
of fifty, but looks older still. His name is Ignatius
Loyola. He is bent and broken, and is pitifully
lame. But the fire of a holy enthusiasm burns in
his eye. He has marked the brilliant young teacher
for his own, and is determined to win him. He
makes friends. After each utterance he con-
gratulates the lecturer, and adds significantly: 'But

94 A Bunch of Everlastings

what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world
and lose his own soulf

The whole world! His own soul!

To gain the world! To lose his soul!

'What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole
world and lose his own soulf

He lounges with the lecturer in the solitude of
the study, he accompanies him in his evening walks
along the banks of the Seine ; they explore together
the dense woodlands which occupy the site of future
Parisian suburbs. But whether in springtide ram-
bles among the lilies and the daffodils, or in riverside
strolls by sunset, or in halls of feasting and music
and pleasure, or in silent study, or in the stately
academy, the strange student asks, and repeats, and
asks again one incessant question :

'But what shall it profit a man if he gain the
whole world and lose his own soulf

The whole world! His own soul!

To gain the zvorld! To lose his soul!

'But what shall it profit a man if he gain the
whole zvorld and lose his own soul?'

A hundred times, as he painfully hobbles along
beside his brilliant young master, the deformed
pupil reiterates his unanswerable query. And at
last, the master mind capitulates to the pitiless and
resistless logic of that immortal question. The
great professor becomes the lowliest of penitents.
Student and lectuier kneel side by side, and, in a
tempest of tears, the young lecturer dedicates all

Francis Xavier's Text 95

that is left of life to that Saviour into whose awful
presence his student has ushered him. The lecturer
has learned more from his listener than he could
ever have imparted.

Ill

Scene: On the Seashore of Siam.

He is a monk. His face is drawn with suffering.
Fasts and vigils have left their mark. But, great
as are the tortures of his body, the anguish of his
mind is greater still. Having himself heard the
Story of the Cross, a new idea haunts and possesses
him. He is horrified by the fearful reflection that
the nations sit in darkness and know not the light
which has irradiated him. Not a moment must be
lost! Thousands are dropping daily into Christless
graves! It is an alarming and terrifying discovery!
He will set out at once, and the peoples shall hear
from his own lips the story of redeeming love!
There are no trains or coaches. He will tramp
through the world till his limbs are swollen and his
nerves are numb. He sets out. He visits India,
and hastening from province to province, picks up
the languages as he goes along by happy intercourse
with little children. He stands one day amidst the
dazzling splendour of an Oriental palace; on the
next, he pays court to a rajah and his native staff;
on the third he moves amongst the filthy huts of the
fisher-folk of Malabar, But every day, and every-

96 A Bunch of Everlastings

where, he tells with agony and tears, his strange and
wondrous tale. Ridiculed, stoned and persecuted,
he presses tirelessly on, always uplifting the Cross
with his right hand, and with his left, ringing the
bell that summons the people to attend. Having
made converts, and planted churches, he loses not
an hour, but hurries off in search of fresh fields to
add to his Divine conquest. He labours for twenty-
one hours out of every twenty-four. In the course
of ten short years he learns and preaches in twenty
different languages. Now he begs a passage in a
troopship, and anon he sails with idolatrous pirates
and blasphemous corsairs. He tumbles about the
oceans in vessels that would not now be permitted to
navigate a river. And at sea, as on land, the passion
of his sacred purpose consumes him still. He haunts
the forecastle, pleading, one by one, with every sol-
dier and sailor on the troopship. He proclaims to
robbers and to slaves the glowing words of life
eternal. Across burning deserts and over snowy
ranges he threads his fearless way. The fierce blaze
of equatorial suns, and the piercing cold of slippery
mountain glaciers, alike fail to baffle or deter him.
He throws himself into scenes of battle and of car-
nage that he may strive for the souls of the wounded
and the dying. Whilst the very earth rocks beneath
his feet, he stands on the shuddering slopes of
blazing volcanoes that, amidst scenes of exquisite
and majestic horror, he may urge the panic-stricken
natives to flee from the wrath to come. He visits

Francis Xavier's Text 97

leper settlements, and, with all the tenderness of a
woman, nurses hideous human wrecks the very sight
of whom would sicken a less intrepid spirit. He
boards ships whose crews are perishing of loathsome
pestilence, and, unafraid of contracting their disgust-
ing maladies, he ministers to the diseased, and kneels
beside the prostrate forms of the dying. He comes
like a ghost upon wild, untutored inland tribes; he
bursts into the island territories of fierce and un-
tamed cannibals. He invades the secret lair of the
bandit, and penetrates to the lonely tent of the Bed-
ouin. He passes spectrally from shore to shore.
He startles armies on the march, and arrests the
progress of the journeying caravan. His limbs are
often paralysed with fatigue. He tramps across
continents until, from sheer exhaustion, he drops
upon the hard and inhospitable soil; and then,
having rested for an hour, he rises and staggers on
again. He dares death in every form; he shakes
hands with every ailment and disease ; he endures all
the pangs of hunger and all the horrors of thirst;
he suffers desolating shipwreck and bitter persecu-
tion. He can rejoice in any privation if he may but
uplift the Cross on every shore, and preach the
gospel to every creature. And it is always observed
that, on whatever coast he lands, and in whatever
language he preaches, whether he addresses the
nabobs of Mysore or the Mikado of Japan, whether
he speaks on the deck of a pirate or in the hovel of
a slave, he echoes endlessly one everlasting question :

98 A Bunch of Everlastings

'But what shall it profit a man if he gain the
whole world and lose his own soul?'

The whole world! His own soul!

To gain the world! To lose his soul!

'What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole
world and lose his own soul?'

At last, absolutely worn out after ten short
strenuous years, at the age of forty-five, he lays
his wasted, worn, emaciated frame upon the sea-
beach of Siam, and, unnursed and untended, re-
signs his soul to God. He dies, as he lived, with
a smile upon his face. His winsomeness was as
wonderful as 'his daring. Little children simply
revelled in his company. His life is the most
stinging rebuke that history has ever administered
to apathy. His record is a stimulus to every church,
and a challenge to every age. It must quicken the'
blood, and fire the fervour, of good men till his
great Master come. It will accelerate the trium-
phant progress of all noble enterprises till time shall
be no more.

>|C 5jC 3jC 57C 5|C SjC

And the rest of the acts of Francis Xavier, and
all that he did, and the things that he suffered, and
the peoples that he reached, and the churches that
he planted, are they not written in the book of the
Chronicles of Christendom?

J. B. COUGH'S TEXT

He is an old man of twenty-five! Nobody, seeing
him to-night, would suspect that he had seen so few
winters; and nobody would suspect that forty- four
summers, filled with sunshine and with song, lie
between him and his grave. Here he sits at a bare
table, in an empty, cheerless room. He shivers, for
he is hungry, and he is insufficiently clad. His thin
arms are folded on the table, and his haggard face
rests upon them. He feels that he has come to the
fag-end of everything. He has just completed seven
dark and dreadful years. 'During those years,' as
he himself tells us, with a shudder, in the brighter
after-days, 'during those years I wandered over
God's beautiful earth like an unblessed spirit. It
was like being driven by whips across a burning
desert : I was for ever digging deep wells to quench
my maddening thirst, and for ever bringing up
nothing but the hot, dry sand! Seven years of
darkness! Seven years of slavery! Seven years of
dissipation! Seven years of sin!'

But let us not be too swift to pity! Pity, like
charity, must be intelligent; it is too sacred a thing
to be wasted or squandered. It does not follow,

.^ rv O O

loo A Bunch of Everlastings

because this man is ragged and wretched, that he
is therefore poor. He is rich; and it is only in
such extremities of distress that men discover their
buried wealth. To-night, sitting in despair within
this squalid room, he suddenly finds himself pos-
sessed of incalculable treasure! Memory yields up
her golden hoard! There rush back upon him the
tender, hallowed, clustering associations of his early
days: the village church, the Sunday School, and,
best of all, the dear old English home. As he sits
here in this squalid room, his outer-self is on one
side of the Atlantic whilst his inmost soul is on the
other. His gaunt frame, disfigured by the life that
he has lived, is in Massachusetts; but his heart,
flying on the wings of fancy, is back among the
sweet and fragrant fields of his Kentish home. And,
the centre and soul of all those radiant recollections,
he sees the sad and wistful face of his mother. His
face is still buried in his ragged sleeves, so the tears
do not show ; but they are there.

'Oh, that mother of mine!' Gough used to say;
'she was one of Christ's nobility, and she possessed
a patent signed and sealed with His redeem-
ing blood ! She was poor in purse, but rich in
piety; a brave, godly woman! She died a pauper
and was buried without a shroud and without a
prayer; but she left her children a legacy that has
made them wealthier than peers and princes! I
remember one night, towards the close of her life,
sitting with her in the garret, and we had no candle.

J. B. Oough's Text loi

She said to me, "John, I am growing blind ; I don't
feel it much ; but you are young, and it is hard for
you to have a poor, blind mother. But never mind,
John; there is no night in heaven and no need of
any candle there ; the Lamb is the light thereof !"
Oh, that mother of mine ! She is neither poor nor
blind now; she has left that dark and gloomy garret
to bask in the sunshine of her Saviours smiles!'
And it was his mother, or at least the fond, clear
memory of his mother, that came to his relief in the
hour of his most dire extremity. That is a way that
mothers have ! But let him tell the story in his own
way.

'All at once,* he says, *it seemed as if the very
light she left as she passed had spanned the dark
chasm of those seven dreadful years, struck the
heart, and opened it. The passages of Scripture
that she had taught me, and that had been buried
in my memory, came to me as if they were being
whispered in my ear by the loving lips of my mother
herself. "He is able to save to the uttermost them
that come unto God by Him." It is the very thing
I need ! I want to be saved — I cannot save myself —
He is able to save to the uttermost! — Then He is
the Saviour for me !'

I said that, poor as he seemed, this youth of
twenty-five owned 'buried treasure' !

That text, he says, was 'buried in my memory!'

'He is able to save to the uttermost them that come
unto God by Him!'

I03 A Bunch of Everlastings

See, he rises at last; draws his sleeve across his
eyes; pulls himself together; and, clutching at that
text as a drowning man clutches at his rescuer's
hand, he walks out of that cheerless room in the
power of an endless life.

This, then, was J. B. Cough's text. Not that he
held any proprietary rights in it. John Bunyan
would dispute any such pretensions. *At another
time,' says Bunyan, *I was much under this ques-
tion. Whether the blood of Christ was sufficient to
save my soul? in which doubt I continued from
morning till about seven or eight at night: and at
last, when I was, as it were, quite worn out with
fear, lest it should not lay hold on me, these words
did sound suddenly within my heart : "He is able."
But methought, this word "able" was spoke loud
unto me; it showed a great word, it seemed to be
writ in great letters, and gave such a jostle to my
fear and doubt as I never had before or after. For
"He is able to save to the uttermost them that come
unto God by Him." '

'Is there salvation for me, even for me?' asks
J. B. Gough, in his despair.

*Is the blood of Christ sufficient to save my soul,
even mine ?' asks John Bunyan, in that anxious hour.

And to both of them there came the same reply :
'He is able to save to the uttermost I'

*It is a great word !' says Cough.

J. B. Gough's Text 103

*It seems to be writ in great letters!' says Bun-
yan.

And by that gallant and assuring word they were
both greatly delivered.

Ill

In the fairy story that beguiled our infancy, the
Three Giants confronted the hero just as he was
setting out on his romantic quest. J. B. Gough
had a precisely similar experience. On the very
threshold of the new life three tyrannical figures
arose and endeavoured to drive him back to slavery.
Their names ? The name of the first was Yesterday;
the name of the second was To-day; and the name
of the third was To-morrozv.

Giant Yesterday pointed out with terrific empha-
sis that the past is absolutely indelible. What's done
can never be undone! There are some things that
even God cannot do; and this is one of them.

Wounds of the soul, though healed, will ache;
The reddening scars remain

And make confession;
Lost innocence returns no more;
We are not what we were

Before transgression I

To the end of his days, Gough was haunted by
the grim ghosts of those seven terrible and re-
morseless years. *I have suffered,* he cried, 'and
come out of the fire scorched and scathed with the
marks upon my person and with the memory of it

I04 A Bunch of Everlastings

burnt right into my soul!' He likened his life to a
snowdrift that had been sadly stained. No power
on earth can restore its former purity and white-
ness. 'The scars remain! the scars remain!' he
used to say, with bitter self-reproaches. Giant
Yesterday pointed to the black, black past derisively ;
held it as a threat over the poor penitent's bowed
and contrite head ; and told him in tones that sounded
like thunder-claps that there was no escape.

Giant To-day points to things as they are : 'Look
at yourself !' the tyrant exclaims. 'Facts are facts ;
your present condition is a fact ; how can you evade
it?' Gough throws himself back in a chair and gives
rein to his fancy. A vision, or, rather, a series of
visions, come to him. Before him stands a bright,
fair-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful boy, with rosy
cheeks and pearly teeth and ruby lip — the perfect
picture of innocence and peace, health, purity and

joy-

'Who are you ?' Gough asked.

*I am your Past; I am what you Were!'

Another figure appears. The youth has become
a man. He looks born to command. Intellect
flashes from the eye; the noble brow speaks of
genius trained and consecrated; it is a glorious
spectacle.

'And who are you!' Gough asks again.

*I am your Ideal; I am what you Might Have
Been!' Then there creeps slowly into the bare room
a wretched thing, unkempt and loathsome, it is

J. B. Gough's Text 105

manacled, hard and fast; the face is furrowed and
filthy; the Hp is swollen and repulsive; the brow is
branded as the throne of sensuality; the eyes glare
wildly and are bleared and dim.

'And who are you ?' Gough again demands.

'I am your Present; I am what you Are!' By
this expressive shadow-show, Giant To-day sought
to frighten a trembling spirit from its rich inherit-
ance.

And as for Giant To-morrow, his case is ready-
made. 'It is easy enough to be religious to-day,'
he says, 'but what of to-morrow, and the next day,
and all the days that are coming? If one tempta-
tion fails to overthrow you, another will surely
bring you down !' And Gough, who knows the cruel
strength of each temptation, feels the force of what
these monsters say.

The Three Giants withdraw, leaving Gough in
the depths of despair. How can he venture upon
the Christian life? He has only to review his own
indelible Past; he has only to contemplate his hu-
miliating Present; he has only to conjure up the
sinister probabilities of the unpromising Future, in
order to recognise the sheer audacity of such a step.
Can he reasonably hope to keep his vow through all
the years ahead ? Many a race is lost at the last lap ;
many a ship is wrecked on the reefs outside its final
port ; many a battle is lost on the last charge ; what

io6 A Bunch of Everlastings

hope has he of completing the course upon which he
proposes to venture? He feels that it is hopelessly
beyond him.

And it is at this critical juncture that the text
comes bravely to his rescue.

'I am not able !' moans the distracted penitent.

'He is able !' replies the text.

'I should falter before I had finished!' says
Gough.

*He is able to save to the uttermost,' answers the
text. To the uttermost — to the very last inch of the
very last yard of the very last mile ! To the utter-
most— to the very last minute of the very last hour
of the very last day! 'He is able to save to the
uttermost them that come unto God by Him, seeing
He ever liveth to make intercession for them/

And thus the Three Giants are discomfited and
put to confusion. And Gough enters into a peace
that only becomes deeper and fuller and richer and
sweeter as the long and busy years go by.

Every man carries in his soul a note of exclama-
tion and a note of interrogation. But we do not place
them similarly. The leper in the Gospels put the
note of exclamation against the ability of Christ to
cleanse him, and the note of interrogation against
His willingness to save. Tf Thou wilt, Thou canst
make me whole 1'

J. B. Oough's Text 107

Thou canst!!!

If Thou wilt???

Most of us find the prevailing wind blowing from
the opposite quarter. We give the Saviour credit
for a certain amiable willingness to help us; but,
knowing as we do all that the Three Giants have to
say, we doubt His ability to deliver. We put the
notes of exclamation and of interrogation the other
way.

Thou wilt!!!

If Thou canst???

But, as J. B. Gough discovered on that never-
to-be-forgetten day, the Christian message is a
revelation of a limitless ability to deliver. It
is never a try ; it is always a triumph. We have wit-
nessed this desperate struggle in a squalid room at
Massachusetts — the struggle of an enslaved soul
after freedom. Let us go back a hundred years.
Exactly a century before this scene was enacted in
an American attic, a dramatic episode marked the
historic ministry of Philip Doddridge at Northamp-
ton. An Irishman named Connell was convicted
of a capital offence and sentenced to be publicly
hanged. Mr. Doddridge, at great trouble and ex-
pense, instituted a most rigid scrutiny, and proved,
beyond the possibility of a doubt, that Connell was
a hundred and twenty miles away when the crime
was committed. The course of judgement could not,
however, be deflected. Connell was asked if he had
any request to make before setting out for the

loS A Bunch of Everlastings

gallows. He answered that he desired the proces-
sion to pause in front of the house of Mr. Philip
Doddridge, that he might kneel on the minister's
doorstep and pray for the man who had tried to
save him.

'Mr. Doddridge,' he cried, when the procession
halted, 'every hair of my head thanks you; every
throb of my heart thanks you; every drop of my
blood thanks you ; for you did your best to save me !'

Mr. Doddridge was willing to save.

Mr. Doddridge did his best to save.

Mr. Doddridge was not able to save.

But *He is able to save to the uttermost them that
come unto God by Him!' That is the glory of the
Gospel that won the heart of Gough that day and
held him a glad captive through all the fruitful years
that followed.

Mr. Chesterton says that *God paints in many
colours, but He never paints so gorgeously as when
He paints in white.' The crimson of the sunset ; the
azure of the ocean; the green of the valleys; the
scarlet of the poppies; the silver of the dewdrops;
the gold of the gorse; these are exquisite — so per-
fectly beautiful, indeed, that we cannot imagine an
attractive heaven without them. God paints in many
colours; but in the soul of J. B. Gough He paints
in white; and we feel that here the divine art is at
its very best. Forty-four crowded and productive

J. B. Gough's Text 109

years have passed since that grim struggle in the
squahd room. Gough is again in America, address-
ing a vast audience of young men at Philadelphia.

'Young men,' he cries, perhaps with a bitter mem-
ory of those seven indelible years, 'Young men, keep
your record clean!'

He pauses: it is a longer pause than usual; and
the audience wonders. But he regains his voice.

'Young men,' he repeats more feebly this time,
'keep your record clean!'

Another pause, longer than before. But again
he finds the power of speech.

'Young men,' he cries a third time, but in a thin,
wavering voice, 'young men, keep your record clean !'

He falls heavily on the platform. Devout men
carry him to his burial, and make lamentation over
him. His race is finished; his voyage completed;
his battle won. The promise has been literally and
triumphantly fulfilled. The grace that saved him
has kept him to the very last inch of the very last
yard of the very last mile; to the very last minute
of the very last hour of the very last day; for 'He
is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto
God by Him!'

XI
JOHN KNOX'S TEXT

Some men are not born to die. It is their prerogative
to live; they come on purpose. A thousand deaths
will not lay them in a grave. No disease from within,
no danger from without, can by any means destroy
them. They bear upon their faces the stamp of the
immortal. In more senses than one, they come into
the world for good. Among such deathless men
John Knox stands out conspicuously. When in
Edinburgh it is impossible to believe that John Knox
lived four hundred years ago. He is so very much
alive to-day that it seems incredible that he was
living even then. The people will show you his
grave in the middle of the road, and the meagre
epitaph on the flat tombstone will do its feeble best
to convince you that his voice has been silent for
centuries; but you will sceptically shake your head
and move away. For, as you walk about the noble
and romantic city, John Knox is everywhere ! He is
the most ubiquitous man you meet. You come upon
him at every street corner. Here is the house in
which he dwelt; there is the church in which he
preached; at every turn you come upon places that
are haunted by him still. The very stones vibrate

John Knox's Text m

with the strident accents of his voice ; the walls echo
to his footsteps. I was introduced to quite a number
of people in Edinburgh; but I blush to confess that
I have forgotten them all — all but John Knox. It
really seems to me, looking back upon that visit,
that I met John Knox somewhere or other every
five minutes. I could hear the ring of his voice; I
could see the flash of his eye; I could feel the im-
press of his huge and commanding personality. The
tomb in the middle of the road notwithstanding,
John Knox is indisputably the most virile force in
Scotland at this hour. I dare say that, like me, he
sometimes catches sight of that tomb in the middle
of the road. If so, he laughs — as he could laugh —
and strides defiantly on. For John Knox was born
in 1505 and, behold, he liveth and abideth for ever!

John Knox, I say, was born in 1505. In 1505,
therefore, Scotland was born again. For the birth
of such a man is the regeneration of a nation. Life
in Knox was not only immortal; it was contagious.
Because of Knox, Carlyle affirms, the people began
to live! 'In the history of Scotland,' says Carlyle,
himself a Scotsman, *in the history of Scotland I
can find but one epoch : it contains nothing of world-
interest at all, but this Reformation by Knox.* But
surely, surely, the sage is nodding ! Has Carlyle for-
gotten Sir Walter Scott and Robert Burns and all
Scotland's noble contribution to literature, to in-

112 A Bunch of Everlastings

dustry, to religion and to life? But Carlyle will not
retract or modify a single word. 'This that Knox
did for his nation,' he goes on, 'was a resurrection
as from death. The people began to live! Scotch
literature and thought, Scotch industry ; James Watt,
David Hume, Walter Scott, Robert Burns: I find
John Knox acting in the heart's core of every one
of these persons and phenomena ; I find that without
him they would not have been.' So much have I
said in order to show that, beyond the shadow of
a doubt, if a text made John Knox, then that text
made history.

Ill

*Go!' said the old reformer to his wife, as he
lay a-dying, and the words were his last, 'go, read
where I cast my first anchor !' She needed no more
explicit instructions, for he had told her the story
again and again. It is Richard Bannatyne, Knox's
serving-man, who has placed the scene on record.
'On November 24, 1572,' he says, 'John Knox de-
parted this life to his eternal rest. Early in the
afternoon he said, "Now, for the last time, I com-
mend my spirit, soul and body" — pointing upon his
three fingers — "into Thy hands, O Lord!" There-
after, about five o'clock, he said to his wife, "Go,
read where I cast my first anchor!" She did not
need to be told, and so she read the seventeenth of
John's evangel.' Let us listen as she reads it ! 'Thou
hast given Him authority over all flesh, that He

John Knox's Text 113

should give eternal life to as many as Thou hast
given Him, and this is life eternal, that they might
know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ
zvhom Thou hast sent.'

Here was a strange and striking contrast !

'Eternal Life! Life Eternal!' says the Book.

Now listen to the laboured breathing from the
bed!

The Bed speaks of Death; the Book speaks of
Life Everlasting!

*Life!' the dying man starts as the great cadences
fall upon his ear.

*This is Life Eternal, that they might know Thee!'

*Life Eternal!'

*It was there,' he declares with his last breath, *it
was there that I cast my first anchor !'

How was that first anchor cast? I have tried to
piece the records together. Paul never forgot the
day on which he saw Stephen stoned; John Knox
never forgot the day on which he saw George Wish-
art burned. Wishart was a man 'of such grace' —
so Knox himself tells us — *as before him was never
heard within this realm.' He was regarded with an
awe that was next door to superstition, and with an
affection that was almost adoration. Are we not
told that in the days when the plague lay over
Scotland, 'the people of Dundee saw it approaching
from the west in the form of a great black cloud?

114 ^ Bunch of Everlastings

They fell on their knees and prayed, crying to the
cloud to pass them by, but even while they prayed
it came nearer. Then they looked around for the
most holy man among them, to intervene with God
on their behalf. All eyes turned to George Wishart,
and he stood up, stretching his arms to the cloud,
and prayed, and it rolled back.' Out on the borders
of the town, however, the pestilence was raging,
and Wishart, hastening thither, took up his station
on the town wall, preaching to the plague-stricken
on the one side of him and to the healthy on the
other, and exhibiting such courage and intrepidity
in grappling with the awful scourge that he became
the idol of the grateful people. In 1546, however,
he was convicted of heresy and burned at the foot
of the Castle Wynd, opposite the Castle Gate. When
he came near to the fire, Knox tells us, he sat down
upon his knees, and repeated aloud some of the most
touching petitions from the Psalms. As a sign of
forgiveness, he kissed the executioner on the cheek,
saying : *Lo, here is a token that I forgive thee. My
harte, do thine office!' The faggots were kindled,
and the leaping flames bore the soul of Wishart
triumphantly skywards.

And there, a few yards ofif , stands Knox ! Have
a good look at him! He is a man 'rather under
middle height, with broad shoulders, swarthy face,
black hair, and a beard of the same colour a span

John Knox's Text 115

and a half long. He has heavy eyebrows, eyes deeply
sunk, cheekbones prominent and cheeks ruddy. The
mouth is large, the lips full, especially the upper one.
The whole aspect of the man is not unpleasing; and,
in moments of emotion, it is invested with an air
of dignity and majesty.' Knox could never shake
from his sensitive mind the tragic yet triumphant
scene near the Castle Gate; and when, many years
afterwards, he himself turned aside to die, he
repeated with closed eyes the prayers that he had
heard George Wishart offer under the shadow of
the stake.

Was it then, I wonder, that John Knox turned
sadly homeward and read to himself the great High
Priestly prayer in *the seventeenth of John's evan-
gel'? Was it on that memorable night that he
caught a glimpse of the place which all the redeemed
hold in the heart of the Redeemer? Was it on that
melancholy evening that there broke upon him the
revelation of a love that enfolded not only his
martyred friend and himself, but the faithful of
every time and of every clime? Was it then that
he opened his heart to the magic and the music of
those tremendous words : 'Thou hast given Him
authority over all Hesh, that He should give eternal
life to as many as Thou hast given Him; and this is
life eternal, that they might know Thee, the only
true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent.'
Was it then? I cannot say for certain. I only know
that we never meet with Knox in Scottish story until

ii6 A Bunch of Everlastings

after the maryrdom of Wishart; and I know that,
by the events of that sad and tragic day, all his soul
was stirred within him. But, although I do not
know for certain that the anchor was first cast then,
I know that it was first cast there. *Go!* he said,
with the huskiness of death upon his speech, 'read
me where I cast my first anchor!' And his wife
straightway read to him the stately sentences I have
just re-written.

^Life Eternal!'

'This is Life Eternal!'

'This is Life Eternal, that they might know Thee!'

*It was there, there, there, that I cast my first
anchor !'

Fierce as were the storms that beat upon Knox
during the great historic years that followed, that
anchor bravely held. To say nothing of his ex-
periences at Court and the powerful efforts to coax
or to cow him into submission, think of those twelve
years of exile, eighteen months of which were spent
on the French galleys. We catch two furtive
glimpses of him. The galley in which he is chained
makes a cruise round the Scottish coast. It passes
so near to the fair fields of Fife that Knox can dis-
tinctly see the spires of St. Andrew's. At the
moment, Knox was so ill that his life was despaired
of; and the taunting vision might well have broken
his spirit altogether. But the anchor held; the an-

John Knox's Text 117

chor held ! 'Ah !' exclaimed Knox, raising himself
on his elbow, *I see the steeple of that place where
God first in public opened my mouth to His glory;
and I am fully persuaded, how weak soever I now
appear, that I shall not depart this life till that my
tongue shall glorify His godly name in the same
place.' Again, as Carlyle tells, *a priest one day
presented to the galley-slaves an image of the Virgin
Mother, requiring that they, the blasphemous here-
tics, should do it reverence. "Mother? Mother of
God ?" said Knox, when the turn came to him, "This
is no Mother of God; this is a piece of painted wood !
She is better for swimming, I think, than for being
worshipped !" and he flung the thing into the river.'
Knox had cast his anchor in the seventeenth of
John's evangel.

'This is life eternal, that they might know
Thed'

And since he had himself found life eternal in the
personal friendship of a Personal Redeemer, it was
intolerable to him that others should gaze with su-
perstitious eyes on *a bit of painted wood.'

The thing fell into the river with a splash. It
was a rude jest, but an expressive one. All the
Reformation was summed up in it. Eternal life
was not to be found in such things. ^This is life
eternal, that they might know Thee.' That, says
Knox, is where I cast my first anchor ; and, through
all the storm and stress of those baffling and eventful
years, that anchor held!

iiS A Bunch of Everlastings

VII

Nor was there any parting of the cable or drag-
ging of the anchor at the last, Richard Bannatyne,
sitting beside his honoured master's deathbed, heard
a long, long sigh. A singular fancy overtook him.

'Now, sir,' he said, 'the time to end your battle
has come. Remember those comfortable promises
of our Saviour Jesus Christ which you have so often
shown to us. And it may be that, when your eyes
are blind and your ears deaf to every other sight
and sound, you will still be able to recognise my
voice. I shall bend over you and ask if you have
still the hope of glory. Will you promise that, if
you are able to give me some signal, you will do so?'

The sick man promised, and, soon after, this is
what happened:

Grim in his deep death-anguish the stern old champion lay,
And the locks upon his pillow were floating thin and grey,
And, visionless and voiceless, with quick and labouring breath,
He waited for his exit through life's dark portal. Death.

'Hast thou the hope of glory?' They bowed to catch the

thrill
That through some languid token might be responsive still,
Nor watched they long nor waited for some obscure reply,
He raised a clay-cold finger, and pointed to the sky.

So the death-angel found him, what time his bow he bent.

To give the struggling spirit a sweet enfranchisement.

So the death-angel left him, what time earth's bonds were

riven,
The cold, stark, stiffening finger still pointing up to heaven.

John Knox's Text 119

'He had a sore fight of an existence,' says Carlyle,
'wrestHng with Popes and Principalities; in defeat,
contention, Hfe-long struggle; rowing as a galley-
slave, wandering as an exile. A sore fight : but he
won it! "Have you hope?" they asked him in his
last moment, when he could no longer speak. He
lifted his finger, pointed upward, and so died!
Honour to him! His works have not died. The
letter of his work dies, as of all men's; but the spirit
of it, never.' Did I not say in my opening sentences
that John Knox was among the immortal humans?
When he entered the world, he came into it for good 1

vni

'This is life eternal, that they might know Thee!'
*That,' says Knox, with his dying breath, 'that is
where I cast my first anchor !* It is a sure anchor-
age, O heart of mine! Cast thine anchor there!
Cast thine anchor in the oaths and covenants of the
Most High ! Cast thine anchor in His infallible, im-
mutable, unbreakable Word! Cast thine anchor in
the infinite love of God! Cast thine anchor in the
redeeming grace of Christ! Cast thine anchor in
the everlasting Gospel! Cast thine anchor in the
individual concern of the individual Saviour for the
individual soul ! Cast thine anchor there ; and, come
what may, that anchor will always hold !

XII
WILLIAM COWPER'S TEXT

Have a good look at him, this shy, shuddering, frail
little fellow of six, for rough hands are waiting to
hustle him on to the coach and to pack him off to a
distant boarding-school! He is a quivering little
bundle of nerves; slight of figure; with pale, pinched
face, and eyes swollen with chronic inflammation.
He starts at every sound in the daytime, and throws
the bedclothes over his head at night that he may
not be scared to death by the ghostly shadows that
flit across the wall. His mother, his sole source of
comfort, has just died : that is why he is being sent
away from home. The memory of her was ever
afterwards the one star that illumined his dark sky.
Late in his life, a picture of her was presented to him ;
and his ecstasy knew no bounds. 'The world,' he
wrote to the giver, 'could not have furnished you
with a present so acceptable to me as the picture
which you have so kindly sent me. I received it the
night before last, and received it with a trepidation
of nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I should
have felt had its dear original presented herself to
my embrace. I kissed it and hung it where it is the
last object which I see at night, and the first on

120

William Cowper's Text 121

which I open my eyes in the morning. Her memory
is to me dear beyond expression.' And then, turning
to the picture itself, he breaks into poetry :

Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me.
My mother, when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day;
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away.
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot 1

So his mother dies and leaves him — a queer, un-
welcome heritage — to his father. And his father,
utterly bewildered by the boy's odd fancies and er-
ratic ways, has resolved to get out of the difficulty
by banishing him to a boarding-school. At the
boarding-school he is badgered and bullied and
beaten without respite and without mercy; and to
the last day of his life he never thinks of the horrid
place without a shudder.

Have a good look at him, I say, before they bun-
dle him into the cavernous interior of the old coach.
For, in spite of everything, this little parcel of timid,
quivering sensibility is going to make history. It

122 A Bunch of Everlastings

frequently happens that, when a man drops into his
grave, his fame gradually subsides until his memory
entirely perishes. With Cowper a diametrically op-
posite principle has been at work. More than a cen-
tury has elapsed since he quitted the scene of his
labours; and during that period the lustre of his
fame has steadily grown. Time was when it was
the fashion to pooh-pooh the claims of Cowper.
*Did he not,' it was asked contemptuously, 'did he
not on several occasions attempt suicide and spend
much of his time in a mad-house?* This, of course,
is indisputable; but it is also true that almost any
young fellow of nervous temperament and frail con-
stitution would lose his reason, and seek some violent
means of escape from the horrors of life, if his
malady were treated as it was customary to treat
such cases a century and a half ago. The marvel is
that from so frail a personality, so pitilessly treated,
we have inherited poetry that will be cherished as
long as the language lasts.

It is the glory of Cowper that he stands among
our pioneers. England had wrapped herself in
gloomy and sullen silence. Literary genius seemed
dead. Then, all at once, the country became like
a grove at sunrise. And the first note heard was
the note of William Cowper. Dr. Arnold, in talking
to his boys at Rugby, used to call him 'the singer of
the dawn.' Goldwin Smith declares that he is the

William Cowper's Text 123

most important poet between the time of Pope and
the time of Wordsworth. In one of his best essays,
Macaulay says that Byron contributed more than
any other writer, more even than Sir Walter Scott,
to the hterary brilHance of the period; and he is
careful to emphasize the fact that it was Cowper who
called that fruitful era into being. 'Cowper,' he
says, 'was the forerunner of the great restoration
of our literature ;* and a little further on he declares
that, 'during the twenty years which followed the
death of Cowper, the revolution in English poetry
was fully consummated.* So there he stands, hold-
ing, and holding for all time, a place peculiarly his
own in our British life and letters. He is an at-
tractive, if a somewhat depressing, figure. A feeble,
sensitive and highly-strung physique; a mental
wreck; a would-be suicide; a passionate lover of all
forms of animal life; the author of some of our
quaintest humour and some of our most sacred
hymns; his life was, as Byron expressively said, a
singular pendulum, swinging ever between a smile
and a tear. Few poets are more human, more sim-
ple, more unaffected, more restful than he ; few are
more easy to read. His 'John Gilpin,' his 'Alexander
Selkirk,' his 'Boadicea,' and 'My Mother's Picture'
were among the first poems we learned in our school-
books; some of his verses will be among the last
we shall care to remember. Perhaps his most force-
ful and pathetic epitaph was written by Mrs. Brown-
ing, in words as true as they are sorrowful j —

124 A Bunch of Everlastings

O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless

singtng

O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was

clinging 1
O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling.
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while you

were smiling!

Ill

But it is time that we asked ourselves a question.
What was it that so distracted this sensitive brain?
What was it that almost broke this gentle and cling-
ing spirit ? What was it that again and again drove
Cowper to attempt his own destruction? There is
only one answer. It was his sin, *My sin; my sin!*
he cries from morning till night, and, very often,
from night until morning. *0h, for some fountain
open for sin and uncleanness !' But he can find no
such fountain anywhere. He is like the old lama,
in Kipling's Kim, who was continually searching for
the River, the River of the Arrow, the River that
can cleanse from sin! But, like the lama, he can
nowhere find those purifying waters. And because
his frenzied quest is so fruitless and so hopeless, he
seeks relief in a premature death. But every rash
attempt fails, and, failing, adds to his consternation ;
for he feels that, in attempting suicide, he has com-
mitted the unpardonable sin, and his plight is a thou-
sand times worse than it was before. He has been
told of the Fountain, but he can never find it. He
has been told of the Lamb of God that taketh away
the sin of the world ; but he knows not how to ap^

William Cowper's Text 125

proach Him. He longs for *a light to shine upon the
road that leads us to the Lamb,' but the darkness
only grows more dense. Then, when the blackness
of the night seems impenetrable, day suddenly
breaks !

Cowper is a patient at Dr. Cotton's private lunatic
asylum. In those days such asylums usually broke
the bruised reed and quenched the smoking flax.
But, happily for William Cowper and the world,
Dr. Cotton's is the exception. Dr. Cotton is himself
a kindly, gracious and devout old man ; and he treats
his poor patient with sympathy and understanding.
And, under this treatment, the change comes. Cow-
per rises one morning feeling better : he grows cheer-
ful over his breakfast ; takes up the Bible, which in
his fits of madness he always threw aside, and,
opening it at random, lights upon a passage that
breaks upon him like a burst of glorious sunshine.
Let him tell the story. 'The happy period which was
to shake off my fetters and afford me a clear opening
of the free mercy of God in Christ Jesus was now
arrived. I flung myself into a chair near the win-
dow, and, seeing a Bible there, ventured once more to
apply to it for comfort and instruction. The first
verses I saw were in the third of Romans : "Being
justified freely by His grace through the redemption
that is in Christ Jesus, whom God hath set forth to
be a propitiation, through faith in His blood, to

126 A Bunch of Everlastings

manifest His righteousness." Immediately I re-
ceived strength to believe, and the full beams of the
Sun of Righteousness shone upon me. I saw the
sufficiency of the atonement He had made, my
pardon in His blood, and the fulness and complete-
ness of His justification. In a moment I believed
and received the gospel.'

Side by side with this illuminating experience of
Cowper's let me set a strikingly similar experience
which befel John Bunyan exactly a hundred years
before. To the soul of Bunyan the self-same text
brought the self -same deliverance. *Now,' he says,
*my soul was clogged with guilt, and was greatly
pinched between these two considerations, Live I
must not, die I dare not. Now I sunk and fell in
my spirit, and was giving up all for lost; but as I
was walking up and down in the house, as a man in
a most woeful state, that word of God took hold
of my heart, "Ye are justified freely by His grace,
through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus, whom
God hath set forth to be a propitiation, through faith
in His blood, to manifest His righteousness." Oh,
what a turn it made upon me! I was as one
awakened out of some troublesome dream.'

'What a turn it made upon me!' says John Bun-
yan in 1656.

'What a turn it made upon me!' says William
Cowper in 1756.

William Cowper's Text 127

For the argument of that great text is irresistible.
If the love of God be so great as to provide such a
Saviour, how could He be eager for the condemna-
tion of the guiltiest? If the grace of God be so freely
outpoured in justifying energy, how could any man
be beyond the pale of hope? And if God is so
anxious for the salvation of men that He has set
forth — underlined, emphasised, explained, made
bravely prominent — this propitiation, why should
even the most timorous of mortals draw back
in terror?

For Cowper, from that moment, the whole world
was changed, 'Huntingdon,' says one of his biogra-
phers, 'seemed a paradise. The heart of its new
inhabitant was full of the unspeakable happiness that
comes with calm after storm, with health after the
most terrible of maladies, with repose after the burn-
ing fever of the brain. When first he went to
Church, he was in a spiritual ecstasy; it was with
difficulty that he restrained his emotions ; though his
voice was silent, being stopped by the intensity of
his feelings, his heart within him sang for joy; and
when the gospel for the day was read, the sound of
it was more than he could bear. This brightness of
his mind communicated itself to all the objects
around him, to the sluggish waters of the Ouse, to
dull, fenny Huntingdon, and to its commonplace
inhabitants.'

'What a turn it made upon me!' says Bunyan in
1656.

128 A Bunch of Everlastings

'What a turn it made upon me!' says Cowper in
1756. And again he breaks into poetry:

I was a stricken deer that left the herd
Long since; with many an arrow deep infixed
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by one who had himself
Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore
And in his hands and feet the cruel scars,
With gentle force soliciting the darts,
He drew them forth and healed and bade me live.

The long-sought fountain is found! The Hght
has shone upon the road that leads him to the Lamb !

XIII
DAVID LIVINGSTONE'S TEXT

*It is the word of a gentleman of the most strict
and sacred honour, so there's an end of it!' says
Livingstone to himself as he places his finger for the
thousandth time on the text on which he stakes his
life. He is surrounded by hostile and infuriated
savages. During the sixteen years that he has spent
in Africa, he has never before seemed in such im-
minent peril. Death stares him in the face. He
thinks sadly of his life-work scarcely begun. For
the first time in his experience he is tempted to steal
away under cover of the darkness and to seek safety
in flight. He prays! 'Leave me not, forsake me
not !' he cries. But let me quote from his own jour-
nal : it will give us the rest of the story.

'January 14, 1856. Evening. Felt much turmoil
of spirit in prospect of having all my plans for the
welfare of this great region and this teeming popu-
lation knocked on the head by savages to-morrow.
But I read that Jesus said: "All power is given
unto Me in heaven and in earth. Go ye therefore,
and teach all nations, and lo, I am with you alway,
even unto the end of the world/' It is the word of
a gentleman of the most strict and sacred honour,

129

I30 A Bunch of Everlastings

so there's an end of it! I will not cross furtively
to-night as I intended. Should such a man as I
flee ? Nay, verily, I shall take observations for lati-
tude and longitude to-night, though they may be the
last. I feel quite calm now, thank God !'

The words in italics are underlined in the journal,
and they were underlined in his heart. Later in the
same year, he pays his first visit to the Homeland.
Honours are everywhere heaped upon him. The
University of Glasgow confers upon him the degree
of Doctor of Laws. On such occasions the recipient
of the honour is usually subjected to some banter
at the hands of the students. But when Livingstone
rises, bearing upon his person the marks of his strug-
gles and sufferings in darkest Africa, he is received
in reverential silence. He is gaunt and haggard as
a result of his long exposure to the tropical sun. On
nearly thirty occasions he has been laid low by the
fevers that steam from the inland swamps, and these
severe illnesses have left their mark. His left arm,
crushed by the lion, hangs helplessly at his side. A
hush falls upon the great assembly as he announces
his resolve to return to the land for which he has
already endured so much. 'But I return,' he says,
'without misgiving and with great gladness. For
would you like me to tell you what supported me
through all the years of exile among people whose
language I could not understand, and whose atti-
tude towards me was always uncertain and often
hostile? It was this: "Lo, I am with you alway,

David Livingstone's Text 131

even unto the end of the world!" On those words I
staked everything, and they never failed !'

'Leave me not, forsake rne not!' he prays.

'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of
the world!' comes the response.

'It is the word of a gentleman of the most strict
and sacred honour, so there's an end of it!' he tells
himself.

On that pledge he hazarded his all. And it did
not fail him.

When, I wonder, did David Livingstone first
make that text his own? I do not know. It must
have been very early. He used to say that he never
had any difficulty in carrying with him his father's
portrait because, in The Cottar's Saturday Night,'
Robert Burns had painted it for him. Down to the
last morning that he spent in his old home at Blan-
tyre, the household joined in family worship. It
was still dark when they knelt down that bleak
November morning. They are up at five. The
mother makes the coffee: the father prepares to
walk with his boy to Glasgow; and David himself
leads the household to the Throne of Grace. The
thought embedded in his text is uppermost in his
mind. He is leaving those who are dearer to him
than life itself ; yet there is One on whose Presence
he can still rely. 'Lo, I am with you alway, even
unto the end of the world.' And so, in selecting the

132 A Bunch of Everlastings

passage to be read by lamplight in the little kitchen
on this memorable morning, David selects the Psalm
that, more clearly than any other, promises him, on
every sea and on every shore, the Presence of his
Lord. 'The Lord is thy keeper. The sun shall not
smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord
shall preserve thee from all evil: He shall preserve
thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out
and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for
evermore.' After prayers comes the anguish of fare-
well. But the ordeal is softened for them all by the
thought that has been suggested by David's reading
and by David's prayer. In the grey light of that
wintry morning, father and son set out on their
long and cheerless tramp. I remember, years ago,
standing on the Broomielow, on the spot that wit-
nessed their parting. I could picture the elder man
turning sadly back towards his Lanarkshire home,
whilst David hurried off to make his final prepara-
tions for sailing. But, deeper than their sorrow,
there is in each of their hearts a song — the song of
the Psalm they have read together in the kitchen —
the song of the Presence — the song of the text!

'Leave me not, forsake me not!' cries the lonely
lad.

'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of
the world!'

'It is the word of a gentleman of the most strict
and sacred honour, so there's an end of it!'

And with that song singing itself in his soul,

David Livingstone's Text 133

David Livingstone turns his face towards darkest
Africa.

Ill

If ever a man needed a comrade, David Living-
stone did. Apart from that divine companionship,
his is the most lonely life in history. It is doubtless
good for the world that most men are content to
marry and settle down, to weave about themselves
the web of domestic felicity, to face each day the
task that lies nearest to them, and to work out their
destiny without worrying about the remote and the
unexplored. But it is equally good for the world
that there are a few adventurous spirits in every age
who feel themselves taunted and challenged and
dared by the mystery of the great unknown. As long
as there is a pole undiscovered, a sea uncharted, a
forest untracked or a desert uncrossed, they are
restless and ill at ease. It is the most sublime form
that curiosity assumes. From the moment of his
landing on African soil, Livingstone is haunted,
night and day, by the visions that beckon and the
voices that call from out of the undiscovered. For
his poor wife's sake he tries hard, and tries re-
peatedly, to settle down to the life of an ordinary
mission station. But it is impossible. The lure of
the wilds fascinates him. He sees, away on the
horizon, the smoke of a thousand native settlements
in which no white man has ever been seen. It is
more than he can bear. He goes to some of them

134 A Bunch of Everlastings

and beholds, on arrival, the smoke of yet other set-
tlements still further away. And so he wanders
further and further from his starting point; and
builds home after home, only to desert each home as
soon as it is built! The tales that the natives tell
him of vast inland seas and of wild tumultuous
waters tantalise him beyond endurance. The in-
stincts of the hydrographer tingle within him. He
sees the three great rivers — the Nile, the Congo and
the Zambesi — emptying themselves into three sep-
arate oceans, and he convinces himself that the man
who can solve the riddle of their sources will have
opened up a continent to the commerce and civili-
sation of the world. The treasures of history pre-
sent us with few things more affecting than the
hold that this ambition secures upon his heart. It
lures him on and on — along the tortuous slavetracks
littered everywhere with bones — through the long
grass that stands up like a wall on either side of him
— across the swamps, the marshes and the bogs of
the watersheds — through forests dark as night and
through deserts that no man has ever crossed before
— on and on for more than thirty thousand miles.
He makes a score of discoveries, any one of which
would have established his fame; but none of these
satisfy him. The unknown still calls loudly and will
not be denied. Even at the last, worn to a shadow,
suffering in every limb, and too feeble to put his
feet to the ground, the mysterious fountains of
Herodotus torture his fancy. 'The fountains!' he

David Livingstone's Text 135

murmurs in his delirium, 'the hidden fountains!'
And with death stamped upon his face, he orders
his faithful blacks to bear him on a rude litter in
his tireless search for the elusive streams. Yet never
once does he feel really lonely. One has but to read
his journal in order to see that that word of stainless
honour never failed him. The song that soothed
and comforted the weeping household in the Blan-
tyre kitchen cheered with its music the hazards and
adventures of his life in Africa.

'Leave me not, forsake me not!'

'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of
the world!*

'It is the word of a gentleman of the most strict
and sacred honour, so there's an end of it!'

Thus, amidst savages and solitudes, Livingstone
finds that great word grandly true.

'It is His word of honour!' says Livingstone ; and,
nothing if not practical, he straightway proceeds to
act upon it. Tf He be with me, I can do anything,
anything, anything!' It is the echo of another
apostolic boast : 'I can do all things through Christ
that strengtheneth me!' In that unwavering confi-
dence, and with an audacity that is the best evidence
of his faith, Livingstone draws up for himself a
programme so colossal that it would still have
seemed large had it been the project of a million
men. 'It is His word of honour!' he reasons ; 'and if

136 A Bunch of Everlastings

He will indeed be with me, even unto the end, He
and I can accomplish what a million men, unattended
by the Divine Companion, would tremble to attempt.'
And so he draws up with a calm hand and a fearless
heart that prodigious programme from which he
never for a moment swerved, and which, when all
was over, was inscribed upon his tomb in Westmin-
ster Abbey. Relying on 'the word of a gentleman
of the most strict and sacred honour,' he sets him-
self—

1. To evangelise the native races.

2. To explore the undiscovered secrets.

3. To abolish the desolating slave-trade.

Some men set themselves to evangelise; some
make it their business to explore ; others feel called
to emancipate ; but Livingstone, with a golden secret
locked up in his heart, undertakes all three !

Evangelisa tio n !

Exploration!

Emancipation!
Those were his watchwords. No man ever set him-
self a more tremendous task : no man ever con-
fronted his lifework with a more serene and joyous
confidence !

And how did it all work out? Was his faith
justified? Was that word of honour strictly kept?
'Leave me not, forsake me not!' he cries.
'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end!*

David Livingstone's Text 137

In spite of that assurance, did he ever find him-
self a solitary in a strange and savage land? Was
he ever left or forsaken? It sometimes looked like
it.

It looked like it when he stood, bent with anguish
beside that sad and lonely grave at Shupanga. Poor
Mary Livingstone — the daughter of Robert and
Mary Mofifat — was never strong enough to be the
constant companion of a pioneer. For years she
struggled on through dusty deserts and trackless
jungles seeing no other woman but the wild women
about her. But, with Httle children at her skirts,
she could not struggle on for long. She gave it up,
and stayed at home to care for the bairns and to pray
for her husband as he pressed tirelessly on. But,
even in Africa, people will talk. The gossips at the
white settlements were incapable of comprehending
any motive that could lead a man to leave his wife
and plunge into the interior, save the desire to be
as far from her as possible. Hearing of the scandal,
and stung by it, Livingstone, in a weak moment, sent
for his wife to again join him. She came; she sick-
ened; and she died. We have all been touched by
that sad scene in the vast African solitude. We
seem to have seen him sitting beside the rude bed,
formed of boxes covered with a soft mattress, on
which lies his dying wife. The man who has faced
so many deaths, and braved so many dangers, is now
utterly broken down. He weeps like a child. 'Oh,
my Mary, my Mary!' he cries, as the gentle spirit

138 A Bunch of Everlastings

sighs itself away, 'I loved you when I married you,
and, the longer I lived with you, I loved you the
more ! How often we have longed for a quiet home
since you and I were cast adrift in Africa! God
pity the poor children!' He buries her under the
large baobab-tree, sixty feet in circumference, and
reverently marks her grave. Tor the first time in
my life,' he says, *I feel willing to die! I am left
alone in the world by one whom I felt to be a part of
myself!'

'Leave me not, forsake me not!' he cried at the
outset.

7 am left alone!' he cries in his anguish now.

Has the word of honour been violated? Has it?
It certainly looks like it 1

It looked like it, too, eleven years later, when
his own time came. He is away up among the bogs
and the marshes near Chitambo's village in Ilala.
Save only for his native helpers, he is all alone. He
is all alone, and at the end of everything. He walked
as long as he could walk ; rode as long as he could
ride; and was carried on a litter as long as he could
bear it. But now, with his feet too ulcerated to bear
the touch of the ground ; with his frame so emaciated
that it frightens him when he sees it in the glass;
and with the horrible inward hemorrhage draining
away his scanty remnant of vitality, he can go no
further. 'Knocked up quite!' he says, in the last

David Livingstone's Text 139

indistinct entry in his journal. A drizzling rain is
falling, and the black men hastily build a hut to
shelter him. In his fever, he babbles about the foun-
tains, the sources of the rivers, the undiscovered
streams. Two of the black boys, almost as tired as
their master, go to rest, appointing a third to watch
the sick man's bed. But he, too, sleeps. And when
he wakes, in the cold grey of the dawn, the vision
that confronts him fills him with terror. The white
man is not in bed, but on his knees beside it! He
runs and awakens his two companions. They creep
timidly to the kneeling figure. It is cold and stiff !
Their great master is dead! No white man near!
No woman's hand to close his eyes in that last cruel
sickness! No comrade to fortify his faith with the
deathless words of everlasting comfort and ever-
lasting hope ! He dies alone !

'Leave me not; forsake me not!' he cried at the
beginning.

'He died alone!' — that is how it all ended ! .

Has the word of honour been violated? It most
certainly looks like it I

VII

But it only looks like it! Life is full of illusions,
and so is death. Anyone who cares to read the
records in the journal of that terrible experience
at Shupanga will be made to feel that never for a
moment did the word of honour really fail.

'Lo, I am with you akvay, even unto the end!'

I40 A Bunch of Everlastings

The consciousness of that unfailing Presence was
his one source of comfort as he sat by his wife's
bedside and dug her grave. The assurance of that
divine Presence was the one heartening inspiration
that enabled him to take up his heavy burden and
struggle on again!

'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end!'

Yes, even unto the end ! Take just one more
peep at the scene in the hut at Chitambo's village.
He died on his knees! Then to whom was he
talking when he died? He was talking even to the
last moment of his life, to the constant Companion
of his long, long pilgrimage! He was speaking,
even in the act and article of death, to that 'Gentle-
man of the most strict and sacred honour' whose
word he had so implicitly trusted.

'He will keep His word' — it is among the last
entries in his journal — 'He will keep His word, the
Gracious One, full of grace and truth; no doubt of
it. He will keep His word, and it will be all right.
Doubt is here inadmissible, surely!'

'Leave me not; forsake me not!' he cried at the
beginning.

'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end!'
came the assuring response.

'It is the word of a gentleman of the most strict
and sacred honour, so there's an end of it!'

And that pathetic figure on his knees is the best
testimony to the way in which that sacred pledge
was kept.

XIV
C H. SPURGEON'S TEXT

Snow! Snow! Snow!

It was the first Sunday of the New Year, and this
was how it opened 1 On roads and footpaths the
snow was already many inches deep ; the fields were
a sheet of blinding whiteness; and the flakes were
still falling as though they never meant to stop. As
the caretaker fought his way through the storm from
his cottage to the chapel in Artillery Street, he won-
dered whether, on such a wild and wintry day, any-
one would venture out. It would be strange if, on
the very first Sunday morning of the year, there
should be no service. He unbolted the chapel doors
and lit the furnace under the stove. Half an hour
later, two men were seen bravely trudging their way
through the snowdrifts; and, as they stood on the
chapel steps, their faces flushed with their recent
exertions, they laughingly shook the snow from off
their hats and overcoats. What a morning, to be
sure! By eleven o'clock about a dozen others had
arrived ; but where was the minister ? They waited ;
but he did not come. He lived at a distance, and, in
all probability, had found the roads impassable.
What was to be done? The stewards looked at

141

142 A Bunch of Everlastings

each other and surveyed the congregation. Except
for a boy of fifteen sitting under the gallery, every
face was known to them, and the range of selection
was not great. There were whisperings and hasty
consultations, and at last one of the two men who
were first to arrive — 'a poor, thin-looking man, a
shoemaker, a tailor, or something of that sort' —
yielded to the murmured entreaties of the others and
mounted the pulpit steps. He glanced nervously
round upon nearly three hundred empty seats.
Nearly, but not quite! For there were a dozen or
fifteen of the regular worshippers present, and
there was the boy sitting under the gallery. People
who had braved such a morning deserved all the
help that he could give them, and the strange boy
under the gallery ought not to be sent back into the
storm feeling that there was nothing in the service
for him. And so the preacher determined to make
the most of his opportunity; and he did.

The hoy sitting under the gallery! A marble
tablet now adorns the wall near the seat which he
occupied that snowy day. The inscription records
that, that very morning, the boy sitting under the
gallery was converted ! He was only fifteen, and he
died at fifty-seven. But, in the course of the inter-
vening years, he preached the gospel to millions and
led thousands and thousands into the kingdom and
service of Jesus Christ. 'Let preachers study this
story!' says Sir William Robertson Nicoll. 'Let
them believe that, under the most adverse circum-

C. H. Spurgeon's Text 143

stances, they may do a work that will tell on the
universe for ever. It was a great thing to have con-
verted Charles Haddon Spurgeon; and who knows
but he may have in the smallest and humblest con-
gregation in the world some lad as well worth con-
verting as was he ?'

Snow ! Snow ! Snow !

The boy sitting under the gallery had purposed
attending quite another place of worship that Sun-
day morning. No thought of the little chapel in
Artillery Street occurred to him as he strode out
into the storm. Not that he was very particular.
Ever since he was ten years of age he had felt
restless and ill at ease whenever his mind turned to
the things that are unseen and eternal. 'I had been
about five years in the most fearful distress of mind,'
he says. 'I thought the sun was blotted out of my
sky, that I had so sinned against God that there was
no hope for me!' He prayed, but never had a
glimpse of an answer. He attended every place of
worship in the town; but no man had a message
for a youth who only wanted to know what he must
do to be saved. With the first Sunday of the New
Year he purposed yet another of these ecclesiastical
experiments. But in making his plans he had not
reckoned on the ferocity of the storm. *I some-
times think,' he said, years afterwards, *I some-
times think I might have been in darkness and

144 A Bunch of Everlastings

despair now, had it not been for the goodness of
God in sending a snowstorm on Sunday morning,
January 6th, 1850, when I was going to a place of
worship. When I could go no further I turned
down a court and came to a little Primitive
Methodist chapel.' Thus the strange boy sitting
under the gallery came to be seen by the impromptu
speaker that snowy morning! Thus, as so often
happens, a broken programme pointed the path of
destiny ! Who says that two wrongs can never make
a right? Let them look at this! The plans at the
chapel went wrong; the minister was snowed up.
The plans of the boy under the gallery went wrong:
the snowstorm shut him off from the church of his
choice. Those two wrongs together made one tre-
mendous right; for out of those shattered plans
and programmes came an event that has incalculably
enriched mankind.

Ill

Snow 1 Snow ! Snow !

And the very snow seemed to mock his misery.
It taunted him as he walked to church that morning.
Each virgin snowflake as it fluttered before his face
and fell at his feet only emphasised the dreadful
pollution within. 'My original and inward pollution !'
he cries with Bunyan ; *I was more loathsome in mine
own eyes than a toad. Sin and corruption would as
naturally bubble out of my heart as water out of a
fountain. I thought that every one had a better

C. H. Spurgeon's Text 145

heart than I had. At the sight of my own vileness
I fell deeply into despair.' These words of Bun-
yan's exactly reflect, he tells us, his own secret and
spiritual history. And the white, white snow only
intensified the agonising consciousness of defilement.
In the expressive phraseology of the Church of
England Communion Service, 'the remembrance of
his sins was grievous unto him; the burden of them
was intolerable.' 'I counted the estate of everything
that God had made far better than this dreadful
state of mind was: yea, gladly would I have been
in the condition of a dog or a horse; for I knew
they had no souls to perish under the weight of sin
as mine was like to do.' 'Many and many a time,'
says Mr. Thomas Spurgeon, 'my father told me
that, in those early days, he was so stormtossed and
distressed by reason of his sins that he found him-
self envying the very beasts in the field and the toads
by the wayside !' So stormtossed ! The storm that
raged around him that January morning was in per-
fect keeping with the storm within ; but oh, for the
whiteness, the pure, unsullied whiteness, of the
falling snow !

Snow ! Snow ! Snow !

From out of that taunting panorama of purity
the boy passed into the cavernous gloom of the
almost empty building. Its leaden heaviness matched
the mood of his spirit, and he stole furtively to a seat

146 A Bunch of Everlastings

under the gallery. He noticed the long pause; the
anxious glances which the stewards exchanged with
each other; and, a little later, the whispered con-
sultations. He watched curiously as the hastily-
appointed preacher — *a shoemaker or something of
that sort' — awkwardly ascended the pulpit. 'The
man was,' Mr. Spurgeon tells us, 'really stupid as
you would say. He was obliged to stick to his text
for the simple reason that he had nothing else to
say. His text was, "Look unto Me and be ye saved,
all the ends of the earth." He did not even pro-
nounce the words rightly, but that did not matter.
There was, I thought, a glimpse of hope for me in
the text, and I listened as though my life depended
upon what I heard. In about ten minutes the
preacher had got to the end of his tether. Then
he saw me sitting under the gallery; and I daresay,
with so few present, he knew me to be a stranger.
He then said : "Young man, you look very miser-
able." Well, I did; but I had not been accustomed
to have remarks made from the pulpit on my per-
sonal appearance. However, it was a good blow,
well struck. He continued : "And you will always
be miserable — miserable in life, and miserable in
death — if you do not obey my text. But if you
obey now, this moment, you will be saved !" Then
he shouted, as only a Primitive Methodist can shout,
"Young man, look to Jesus! look, look, look!" I
did; and, then and there, the cloud was gone, the
darkness had rolled away, and that moment I saw

C. H. Spurgeon's Text 147

the sun ! I could have risen on the instant and sung
with the most enthusiastic of them of the precious
blood of Christ and of the simple faith which looks
alone to Him. Oh, that somebody had told me be-
fore ! In their own earnest way, they sang a Halle-
lujah before they went home, and I joined in it !'

The snow around!

The defilement within!

*Look unto Me and be ye saved, all the ends of
the earth!'

'Precious blood . . . and simple faith!'

7 sang a Hallelujah!'

Snow ! Snow ! Snow !

The snow was falling as fast as ever when the
boy sitting under the gallery rose and left the
building. The storm raged just as fiercely. And
yet the snow was not the same snow! Everything
was changed. Mr. Moody has told us that, on the
day of his conversion, all the birds in the hedgerow
seemed to be singing newer and blither songs. Dr.
Campbell Morgan declares that the very leaves on
the trees appeared to him more beautiful on the day
that witnessed the greatest spiritual crisis in his
career. Frank Bullen was led to Christ in a little
New Zealand port which I have often visited, by a
worker whom I knew well. And he used to say that,
next morning, he climbed the summit of a mountain

148 A Bunch of Everlastings

near by and the whole landscape seemed changed.
Everything had been transformed in the night !

Heaven above is softer blue,
Earth around a deeper green,

Something lives in every hue
Christless eyes have never seen.

Birds with gladder songs o'erflow,
Flowers with richer beauties shine,

Since I know, as now I know,
I am His and He is mine!

*I was now so taken with the love of God/ says
Bunyan — and here again Mr. Spurgeon says that
the words might have been his own — *I was now so
taken with the love and mercy of God that I could
not tell how to contain till I got home, I thought I
could have spoken of His love, and told of His
mercy, even to the very crows that sat upon the
ploughed lands before me, had they been capable
of understanding me.' As the boy from under the
gallery walked home that morning he laughed at the
storm, and the snow that had mocked him coming
sang to him as he returned. 'The snow was lying
deep,' he says, 'and more was falling. But those
words of David kept ringing through my heart,
"Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow!" It
seemed to me as if all Nature was in accord with
the blessed deliverance from sin which I had found
in a moment by looking to Jesus Christ !'

The mockery of the snow!

The text amidst the snow!

The mtisic of the snow!

C. H. Spurgeon's Text 149

Whiter than the snow!

'Look unto Me and be ye saved!'

'Wash me, and I shall he whiter than snow!'

'Look unto Me and be ye saved!'

Look! Look! Look!

I look to my doctor to heal me when I am hurt;
I look to my lawyer to advise me when I am per-
plexed; I look to my tradesmen to bring my daily
supplies to my door ; but there is only One to whom
I can look when my soul cries out for deliverance.

'Look unto Me and be ye saved, all the ends of
the earth!'

'Look! Look! Look!' cried the preacher.

*I looked/ says Mr. Spurgeon, *until I could al-
most have looked my eyes away; and in heaven I
will look still, in joy unutterable!'

Happy the preacher, however unlettered, who,
knowing little else, knows how to direct such wistful
and hungry eyes to the only possible fountain of sat-
isfaction!

XV
DEAN STANLEY'S TEXT

Towards the close of his 'Life of Dean Stanley,'
Mr. Prothero tells a capital story. A gentleman,
travelling from Norwich to Liverpool, entered a
third-class smoking compartment and was soon ab-
sorbed in conversation with a couple of soldiers
whom he found there. The gentleman's confession
that he came from Norwich suggested to the sol-
diers the name of Dean Stanley, who lived in that
city. The gentleman asked what they knew about
Dean Stanley.

*0h,' replied one of them, 'me and my mate here
have cause to bless the Lord that we ever saw good
Dean Stanley, sir, I can tell you!'

They went on to explain that they once had a day
in London. They were anxious to see all the sights,
but, by the time they reached Westminster Abbey,
the doors were being closed for the night. Ex-
tremely disappointed, they were turning sadly away
when a gentleman approached and asked if they
could not return on the morrow. The soldiers ex-
plained that it was impossible. The gentleman, who
proved to be the Dean, thereupon took the keys
from the beadle, and himself showed them every

150

Dean Stanley's Text 151

part of the Abbey. As he prepared to take leave of
them he commented upon the grandeur of being im-
mortalised by a monument in Westminster Abbey.
'But, after all,' he added, *you may both have a more
enduring monument than this, for this will moulder
into dust and be forgotten, but you, if your names
are written in the Lamb's Book of Life, you will
abide for ever !' He invited them to breakfast next
morning, and insisted on paying their fares to their
homes, and again, in bidding them good-bye, urged
them to be sure to see that their names were written
in the Lamb's Book of Life, 'and then,* he added,
*if we never meet again on earth, we shall certainly
meet in heaven !'

'And so we parted with the Dean,' said the sol-
dier, in concluding his story in the train, *and as
we travelled home we talked about our visit to the
Abbey, and puzzled much as to the meaning of the
Lamb's Book of Life!'

'It will be enough to say,' observes Mr. Prothero,
in placing the story on record, 'it will be enough to
say that those words proved the turning point in the
lives of those two men and of their wives, and that,
as one of them said, "We trust that our names are
written in the Lamb's Book of Life, and that we
may some day, in Grod's good time, meet Dean Stan-
ley in heaven !" *

The Lamb!

The Lamb's Book!

The Lamb's Book of Life!

152 A Bunch of Everlastings

'And there shall in no wise enter into the city
anything that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh
abomination or maketh a lie, but they which are
written in the Lamb's Book of Life!'

God is a great believer in putting things down.
*I looked,' says John, 'and, behold, I saw the books;
and the books were opened; and another book was
opened, which is the Book of Life, and the dead were
judged out of those things which were written in
the books.' John saw books everywhere. It is the
books, the books, the books! In the old slave days
in America, the darkeys on the cotton plantations
used to make their owners tremble by the zest with
which, at their camp meetings, they shouted a cer-
tain chorus :

My Lord sees all you do,
And my Lord hears all you say,
And my Lord keep a-writing all the time!

It was a Western appropriation of an Eastern reve-
lation. The slaves gloried in the highly-coloured
imagery of the Apocalypse. No book was so dear
to them as the book with which the Bible closes.
And when they read about the books, God's books,
the books that hold the evidence, the books that must
all be opened, they sang for very joy. The slaves
shouted and the owners shuddered; the books, the
books, the books ! God puts things down !

Dean Stanley's Test 153

III

He writes everywhere and on everything. He
is the most voluminous author in the universe.
Every leaf in the forest, every sand on the seashore,
is smothered with his handwriting. The trouble is
that I am so slow to recognise the manuscripts of
God. I walk past a tree, and to me it is only a tree —
a leafy elm, a tasselled birch, a flowery chestnut, a
rustling plane or a spreading oak. But a man whose
eyes have been opened will find in the tree a volume
of autobiography. Its history is written in its tissue.
A practised eye can tell at a glance how long it has
stood here; and can read, as from the pages of a
book, the story of the tree's experiences. The winds
by which it has been buffeted ; the accidents that have
befallen it; the diseases from which it has suffered;
the way in which it has been nurtured or starved by
congenial or uncongenial soil ; it is all written down.
A botanist could open the book and interpret the en-
tire romance.

I stand and watch men dig a well. The windlass
revolves; the great buckets go down empty and
come up full; the earth is thrown on to the heap;
and the process is repeated. I see this, and I see
no more. But a geologist would tell me that these
men are digging amongst ancient libraries. Every
clod is a record ; every stone a sign. Standing here
at the mouth of the well, with his glass in one hand
and his hammer in the other, he would pounce upon

154 A Bunch of Everlastings

this and would probe into that, and would tell a
most wonderful tale. To him these are the archives
of antiquity. They tell him of floods and tornadoes
and earthquakes of which no other records survive.
He taps at a stone, and crumbles a lump of loam,
and straightway tells you of the flora and fauna of
the district in some prehistoric time. It is all writ-
ten down; nothing happens without leaving its
record. God is a great believer in bookkeeping.

No man can walk down the street by night or by
day without placing on record the story of his move-
ments. My senses may be too dull to trace him;
but call out the black trackers or the bloodhounds,
and they will soon convince you that every footstep
was like a signature. Read a great detective story,
and it will soon occur to you that your Sherlock
Holmes proceeds on the assumption that every secret
thing is recorded somewhere and somehow : the only
trouble is to lay your hand on the exact volume and
correctly decipher its mysterious hieroglyphics. It
is to that task that the detective dedicates his skill.
The whole science of finger-print evidence shows that
I cannot touch a stick or straw in the solar system
without leaving a record of my act, signed and
sealed, upon the spot.

History is written automatically. It is wonderful
what you find when you are moving. The Autocrat
of the Breakfast Table, engaged one day on some

Dean Stanley's Text 155

such domestic upheaval, stumbled upon this very
truth. He found it behind a set of bookshelves.
'There is nothing that happens,' he says, in telling
the story, 'which must not inevitably, and which
does not actually, photograph itself in every con-
ceivable aspect and in all dimensions. The infinite
galleries of the Past await but one brief process,
and all their pictures will be called out and fixed for
ever. We had a curious illustration of this great
fact on a very humble scale. When a certain book-
case, long standing in one place, for which it was
built, was removed, there was the exact image on
the wall of the whole, and of many of its portions.
But in the midst of this picture was another — the
precise outline of a map which had hung on the wall
before the bookcase was built. We had all forgot-
ten everything about the map until we saw its pho-
tograph on the wall. Then we remembered it, as
some day or other we may remember a sin which
has been built over and covered up, when this lower
universe is pulled away from before the wall of
Infinity where the wrongdoing stands self-recorded.'
One of the old Hebrew prophets declared that the
sin of Judah is written with a pen of iron. Every-
thing is! my doings are dotted down. Even if
they are written nowhere else, they are entered
upon the tablets of my memory. Often the charac-
ter reflects itself in the countenance. Life's story is
variously and indelibly inscribed. There are books,
books, books; books everywhere; the universe itself

156 A Bunch of Everlastings

is but a massive volume beautifully bound. It takes
a lot of reading, but God can make out every word.

The books! The hooks!

The dead were judged out of the books!

What does it mean ?

It means that the judgements of God are terribly
deliberate. I shall never forget an impression made
upon my mind in my early boyhood. Father woke
me early in the morning. He was going to London :
would I care to go with him? Those were always
my red-letter days. The trip and the business in
hand occupied most of the morning, and then we
were free. Where should we go ? Now it happened
that I was very fond of reading the reports of fa-
mous trials. I thought that actually to witness one
would be a most exciting experience. Accordingly,
I asked to be taken to the law courts. Shall I ever
forget the bitter disillusionment? I saw the judge
seated upon his bench; I saw the barristers, the
witnesses and all the principal parties to the suit.
But the proceedings themselves ! I heard a barrister
ask a question, the sense of which I could with diffi-
culty distinguish. I heard a mumbled reply, but
failed to catch the words uttered. I saw the judge
bend over his desk and carefully write something
down. Another question : another inaudible reply :
another pause whilst the judge entered something
in his book. I came away disgusted. My boyish

Dean Stanley's Text 157

dream was shattered. Yet somehow the years have
dispelled the disappointment. I like now to think
of justice as calm, passionless, deliberate. The
judge is unswayed by caprice, vindictiveness or
wrath. He is terribly deliberate. He writes every-
thing down. He judges according to the things that
appear in the books.

It means, too, that the judgements of God are
scrupulously accurate. 'I looked, and, behold, I
saw the books!' I ask my tradesman how much I
owe him. He scratches his head, hums and ha's
for a minute, and then tells me that it comes to ten
and sixpence. I pay him grudgingly, feeling that
the position is very unsatisfactory. Again, I ask
my tradesman how much I owe him. He reaches
down a ledger, opens it, and tells me that I owe him
ten and sixpence. I pay him cheerfully. His ac-
curacy gives me confidence. The books make all
the difference.

It means, too, that the judgements of God are
wonderfully comprehensive and complete. Dean
Stanley, who loved the old Abbey so well, never
wandered through transept, aisle or nave without
feeling, as he gazed upon its stately marbles, that
the judgement of humanity is far from satisfactory.
Many names are immortalised in the Abbey that
might well be permitted to perish : many who served
their country nobly find no memorial there. The
scroll of fame is incomplete. He loved, therefore,
to ponder on another scroll that should be disfigured

158 A Bunch of Everlastings

by no such blemishes. 'See to it/ he used to say,
'that your name is written, not in marble that must
crumble, but in the Lamb's Book of Life!'

I am glad that that 'other book' that John saw
opened was the Book of Life. Westminster Abbey
enshrines the names of the illustrious dead: that
other book — the last and the best that John saw
opened — contains only the names of those who
are alive — and alive for evermore. *I am come that
ye might have life,' said Jesus, in one of His historic
manifestoes, *I am come that ye might have life,
and that ye might have it more abundantly.' 'For
God so loved the world that He gave His only be-
gotten Son that whosoever believeth in Him should
not perish but have everlasting life.' The Saviour
is the Fountain of Life; the Gospel is a Message of
Life; the Volume that John saw opened in heaven
was the Book of Life. There is infinite comfort in
that.

I am glad, too, that it is the Lamb's book. My
heart would fail me if that awful volume had been
inscribed by any hand but His. Lachlan Campbell
was a good man ; he was the strictest and the stern-
est of the elders of Drumtochty ; and he loved Flora,
his erring daughter, dearly. But he was over-hasty
in striking her name out of the family Bible. We
all remember the rebuke that Marget Howe admin-

Dean Stanley's Text 159

istered to him, when she saw the book, its ink all
blurred by tears.

'This is what ye hev dune,' she cried, 'and ye let
a woman see yir wark. Ye are an auld man, and in
sore travail, but a' tell ye before God, ye hae the
greater shame. Juist twenty years o' age this spring,
and her mither dead. Nae woman to watch over
her, and she wandered frae the fold, and a' ye can
dae is to take her oot o' yir Bible! Wae's me if
oor Father had blotted oor names frae the Book 0'
Life when we left His hoose. But He sent His
ain Son to seek us, an' a weary road He cam. Puir
Flora, tae hae sic a father !'

Thanks to Marget's gracious intervention. Flora
came home again; she was welcomed with endless
tears and caresses; the Gaelic — 'the best of all lan-
guages for loving' — contains fifty words for darling,
and Lachlan used them all that night! The name
had to be re-entered in the Bible, and Lachlan had
to ask Flora's forgiveness for erasing it. I am glad
that the book on which my eternal destiny depends
is the Lamb's Book — the Lamb's Book of Life!

Thackeray tells us that when good old Colonel
Newcome — the greatest gentleman in literature — lay
dying, the watchers noticed that his mind was
moving backwards across the pageant of the years.
He is in India addressing his regiment on parade!
He is in Paris, living through the days of auld lang

i6o A Bunch of Everlastings

syne! And then! *At the usual evening hour the
chapel bell began to toll, and Thomas Newcome's
hands outside the bed feebly beat time. And, just
as the last bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone
over his face, and he lifted up his head a little, and
quickly said "Adsum!" and fell back. It was the
word we used at school, when names were called;
and lo, he whose heart was as that of a little child,
had answered to his name, and stood in the presence
of The Master!'

The Book!

The Lamb's Book!

The Lamb's Book of Life!

When that last volume is opened, and that last
roll called, may I, like Colonel Newcome, be ready
to answer gladly to my name !

XVI
WILLIAM CAREY'S TEXT

The westering sun, slanting through the tops of the
taller trees, is beginning to throw long shadows
across the green and gently-undulating fields. The
brindled cattle, lying at their ease and meditatively
chewing the cud in these quiet Northamptonshire
pastures, are disturbed by the sound of footsteps
in the lane. Some of them rise in protest and stare
fixedly at the quaint figure that has broken so rudely
on their afternoon reverie. But he causes them no
alarm, for they have often seen him pass this way
before. He is the village cobbler. This very morn-
ing he tramped along his winding thoroughfare on
his way to Northampton. He was carrying his
wallet of shoes — a fortnight's work — to the Gov-
ernment contractor there. And now he is trudging
his way back to Moulton with the roll of leather
that will keep him busy for another week or two.
The cattle stare at him, as well they may. The
whole world would stare at him if it had the chance
to-day. For this is William Carey, the harbinger
of a new order, the prophet of a new age, the maker
of a new world! The cattle stare at him, but he

i6i

1 62 A Bunch of Everlastings

has no eyes for them. His thoughts are over the
seas and far away. He is a dreamer; but he is
a dreamer who means business. Less than twenty
years ago, in a tall chestnut tree not far from this
very lane, he spied a bird's nest that he greatly
coveted. He climbed — and fell ! He climbed again
— and fell again ! He climbed a third time, and, in
the third fall, broke his leg. A few weeks later,
whilst the limb was still bandaged, his mother left
him for an hour or two, instructing him to take the
greatest care of himself in her absence. When she
returned, he was sitting in his chair, flushed and
excited, with the bird's nest on his knees.

'Hurrah, mother; I've done it at last! Here it
is, look!'

'You don't mean to tell me you've climbed that
tree again !'

'I couldn't help it, mother; I couldn't, really!
// / begin a thing I must go through with it!'

On monuments erected in honour of William
Carey, on busts and plaques and pedestals, on the
titlepages of his innumerable biographies, and under
pictures that have been painted of him, I have often
seen inscribed some stirring sentence that fell from
his eloquent lips. But I have never seen that one.
Yet the most characteristic word that Carey ever
uttered was the reply that he made to his mother
that day!

'If I begin a thing I must go through with it!'

If you look closely, you will see that sentence

William Carey's Text 163

stamped upon his countenance as, with a far-away
look in his eye, he passes down the lane. Let us
follow him, and we shall find that he is beginning
some tremendous things; and, depend upon it, he
will at any cost go through with them !

It is not an elaborately- furnished abode, this little
home of his. For, although he is minister, school--
master and cobbler, the three vocations only provide
him with about thirty-six pounds a year. Looking
around, I can see but a few stools, his cobbler's out-
fit, a book or two (including a Bible, a copy of Cap-
tain Cook's Voyages and a Dutch Grammar) besides
a queer-looking map on the wall. We must have a
good look at this map, for there is history in it as
well as geography. It is a map of the world, made
of leather and brown paper, and it is the work of his
own fingers. Look, I say, at this map, for it is a
reflection of the soul of Carey. As he came up the
lane, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left,
he was thinking of the world. He is a jack-of-all-
trades, yet he is a man of a single thought. 'Per-
haps,' he says to himself, 'perhaps God means what
He says!' The world! The world! The World!
God so loved the world! Go ye into all the world!
The kingdoms of the world shall become the king-
doms of our God and of His Christ! It is always
tke world, the world, the world. That thought
haunted the mind of Carey night and day. The

1 64 A Bunch of Everlastings

map of the world hung in his room, but it only
hung in his room because it already hung in his
heart. He thought of it, he dreamed of it, he
preached of it. And he was amazed that, when
he unburdened his soul to his brother-ministers,
or preached on that burning theme to his little
congregation, they listened with respectful interest
and close attention, yet did nothing. At length, on
May 31, 1792, Carey preached his great sermon,
the sermon that gave rise to our modern mission-
ary movement, the sermon that made history. It
was at Nottingham. 'Lengthen thy cords' — so ran
the text — 'lengthen thy cords and strengthen thy
stakes, for thou shalt break forth on the right hand
and on the left; and thy seed shall inherit the Gen-
tiles and make the desolate cities to be inhabited.'

'Lengthen thy cords!' said the text.

'Strengthen thy stakes!' said the text.

'Expect great things from God!' said the preacher.

'Attempt great things for God!' said the preacher.

'If all the people had lifted up their voices and
wept,' says Dr. Ryland, *as the children of Israel
did at Bochim, I should not have wondered at the
effect; it would only have seemed proportionate to
the cause; so clearly did Mr. Carey prove the
criminality of our supineness in the cause of Godl'
But the people did not weep! They did not even
wait! They rose to leave as usual. When Carey,
stepping down from the pulpit, saw the people
quietly dispersing, he seized Andrew Fuller's hand

William Carey's Text 165

and wrung it in an agony of distress. *Are we
not going to do anything!' he demanded. *Oh,
Fuller, call them back, call them back! We dare
not separate unthout doing anything!' As a result
of that passionate entreaty, a missionary society was
formed, and William Carey offered himself as the
Society's first missionary.

7/ / begin a thing I must go through with it!' he
said, as a schoolboy.

'We dare not separate without doing something!'
he cried, as a young minister.

'Lengthen the cords! Strengthen the stakes!'

'Expect great things! Attempt great things!'

Ill

I can never think of William Carey without
thinking of Jane Conquest. In the little hamlet
by the sea, poor Jane watched through the night
beside the cot of her dying child. Then, suddenly,
a light leapt in at the lattice, crimsoning every
object in the room. It was a ship on fire, and no
eyes but hers had seen it! Leaving her dying boy
to the great Father's care, she trudged through the
snow to the old church on the hill.

She crept through the narrow window and climbed the belfry

stair,
And grasped the rope, sole cord of hope for the mariners in

despair.
And the wild wind helped her bravely, and she wrought with

an earnest will,
And the clamorous bell spake out right well to the hamlet

under the hill.

1 66 A Bunch of Everlastings

And it roused the slumbering fishers, nor its warning task

gave o'er
Till a hundred fleet and eager feet were hurrying to the

shore ;
And the lifeboat midst the breakers, with a brave and gallant

few,
O'ercame each check and reached the wreck and saved the

hapless crew.

Upon the sensitive soul of William Carey there
broke the startling vision of a world in peril, and
he could find no sleep for his eyes nor slumber
for his eyelids until the whole church was up and
doing for the salvation of the perishing millions.
It has been finely said that when, towards the
close of the eighteenth century, it pleased God to
awaken from her slumbers a drowsy and lethargic
church, there rang out, from the belfry of the
ages, a clamorous and insistent alarm; and, in that
arousing hour, the hand upon the bellrope was the
hand of William Carey.

'We dare not separate without doing something!'
'Lengthen the cords! Strengthen the stakes!'
'Expect great things! Attempt great things!'
'Here am I ; send me, send me!'

Now the life of William Carey is both the out-
come and the exemplification of a stupendous prin-
ciple. That principle was never better stated than
by the prophet from whose flaming lips Carey
borrowed his text. 'Thine eyes,' said Isaiah, 'Thine
eyes shall see the King in His beauty: they shall

William Carey's Text 167

behold the land that stretches very far off.' The
vision kingly stands related to the vision continental;
the revelation of the Lord leads to the revelation of
the limitless landscape. What was it that happened
one memorable day upon the road to Damascus ? It
was simply this: Saul of Tarsus saw the King in
His beauty! And what happened as a natural and
inevitable consequence? There came into his life
the passion of the far horizon. All the narrowing
limits of Jewish prejudice and the cramping bonds
of Pharisaic superstition fell from him like the scales
that seemed to drop from his eyes. The world is
at his feet. Single-handed and alone, taking his
life in his hand, he storms the great centres of
civilisation, the capitals of proud empires, in the
name of Jesus Christ. No difficulty can daunt him ;
no danger impede his splendid progress. He passes
from sea to sea, from island to island, from con-
tinent to continent. The hunger of the earth is in
his soul; there is no coast or colony to which he will
not go. He feels himself a debtor to Greek and to
barbarian, to bond and to free. He climbs moun-
tains, fords rivers, crosses continents, bears stripes,
endures imprisonments, suffers shipwreck, courts
insult, and dares a thousand deaths out of the passion
of his heart to carry the message of hope to every
crevice and corner of the earth. A more thrilling
story of hazard, hardship, heroism and adventure
has never been written. On the road to Damascus
Paul saw the King in His beauty, and he spent the

i68 A Bunch of Everlastings

remainder of his life in exploiting the limitless land-
scape that unrolled itself before him. The vision of
the King opened to his eyes the vision of the con-
tinents. In every age these two visions have always
gone side by side. In the fourteenth century, the
vision of the King broke upon the soul of John
Wickliflfe. Instantly, there arose the Lollards,
scouring city, town and hamlet with the new evangel,
the representatives of the instinct of the far horizon.
The fifteenth century contains two tremendous
names. As soon as the world received the vision
kingly by means of Savonarola, it received the
vision continental by means of Christopher Colum-
bus. In the sixteenth century, the same principle
holds. It is, on the one hand, the century of Martin
Luther, and, on the other, the century of Raleigh,
Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher, Grenville and the great
Elizabethan navigators. All the oceans of the world
became a snowstorm of white sails. The seven-
teenth century gave us, first the Puritans, and then
the sailing of the Mayflower. So we came to the
eighteenth century. And the eighteenth century is
essentially the century of John Wesley and of
William Carey. At Aldersgate Street the vision of
the King in His beauty dawned graciously upon the
soul of John Wesley. During the fifty years that
followed, that vision fell, through Wesley's instru-
mentality, upon the entire English people. The
Methodist revival of the eighteenth century is one
of the most gladsome records in the history of

William Carey's Text 169

Europe. And then, John Wesley having impressed
upon all men the vision of the King^ William Carey
arose to impress upon them the vision of the Con-
tinents.

'We must do something !' he cried.
'Lengthen the cords! Strengthen the stakes!'
'Expect great things! Attempt great things!'
'The King! The King! The Continents! The
Continents!'

Having gazed upon these things, our eyes are the
better fitted to appreciate the significance of the
contents of the cobbler's room. There he sits at his
last, the Bible from which he drew his text spread
out before him, and a home-made map of the world
upon the wall ! There is no element of chance about
that artless record. There is a subtle and inevitable
connection between the two. In the Bihle he saw
the King in His beauty: on the map he caught
glimpses of the far horizon. To him, the two were
inseparable; and, moved by the Vision of the
Lord which he caught in the one, and by the Vision
of the limitless landscape which he caught in the
other, he left his last and made history.

'Lengthen the cords! Strengthen the stakes!'
'Expect great things! Attempt great things!'
'Do something! Do something!'

I70 A Bunch of Everlastings

It was at Nottingham that Carey preached that
arousing sermon : it was in India that he practised
it. With the eye of a statesman and of a strategist
he saw that the best way of regaining the ground
that was being lost in Europe was to achieve new
conquests in Asia. History abounds in striking
coincidences; but, among them all, there is none
more suggestive than the fact that it was on Novem-
ber II, 1793 — the very day on which the French
revolutionists tore the Cross from Notre Dame,
smashed it on the streets, and abjured Christianity
— that William Carey sailed up the Hooghly,- landed
at Calcutta, and claimed a new continent for Christ !
And, like a statesman and a strategist, he settled
down to do in India the work to which he had chal-
lenged the church at home.

^Lengthen the cords!'

'Strengthen the stakes!'

He started an indigo factory; made himself the
master of a dozen languages; became Professor of
Bengali, Sanskrit and Mahratta at a salary of fifteen
hundred a year ; all in order to engage more and still
more missionaries and to multiply the activities by
which the Kingdom of Christ might be set up in
India. His work of translation was a marvel in
itself.

'// / begin a thing I must go through with it!'
he said that day with the birds'-nest resting on
his lap.

'Do something! Do something!' he said in his

William Carey's Text 171

agony as he saw the people dispersing after his
sermon.

And in India he did things. He toiled terribly.
But he sent the gospel broadcast through the lengths
and breadths of that vast land; built up the finest
college in the Indian Empire; and gave the peoples
the Word of God in their own tongue.

VII

Just before Carey died, Alexander Dufif arrived
in India. He was a young Highlander of four-and-
twenty, tall and handsome, with flashing eye and
quivering voice. Before setting out on his own
life-work he went to see the man who had changed
the face of the world. He reached the college on
a sweltering day in July. 'There he beheld a little
yellow old man in a white jacket, who tottered up
to the visitor, received his greetings, and with out-
stretched hands, solemnly blessed him.' Each fell
in love with the other. Carey, standing on the brink
of the grave, rejoiced to see the handsome and cul-
tured young Scotsman dedicating his life to the
evangelisation and emancipation of India. Duff felt
that the old man's benediction would cling to his
work like a fragrance through all the great and
epoch-making days ahead.

Not long after Carey lay a-dying, and, to his
great delight. Duff came to see him. The young
Highlander told the veteran of his admiration and
his love. In a whisper that was scarcely audible,

172 A Bunch of Everlastings

the dying man begged his visitoi to pray with him.
After he had compHed, and taken a sad farewell
of the frail old man, he turned to go. On reaching
the door \ie fancied that he heard his name. He
turned and saw that Mr. Carey was beckoning him.

*Mr. Dufif/ said the dying man, his earnestness
imparting a new vigour to his voice, *Mr. Duff, you
have been speaking about Dr. Carey, Dr. Carey, Dr.
Carey! When I am gone, say nothing about Dr.
Carey — speak only of Dr. Carey's Saviour.'

Did I say that, when our little cobbler startled the
cattle in the Northamptonshire lane, he was thinking
only of the world, the world, the world? I was
wrong! He was thinking primarily of the Saviour,
the Saviour, the Saviour — the Saviour of the World!

And yet I was right ; for the two visions are one
vision, the two thoughts one thought.

The King, the King, the King!

The Continents, the Continents, the Continents!

The Saviour, the Saviour, the Saviour!

The World, the World, the World!

As a lad, Carey caught the vision of the King in
His beauty; and, as an inevitable consequence, he
spent his life in the conquest of the land that is
very far off.

XVII
JAMES HANNINGTON'S TEXT

He is a proud young English gentleman — wealthy,
cultured, athletic; and the words smite him like a
blow in the face.

'Not fit for the Kingdom of God!*

'Not fit for the Kingdom of God!'

Those who know him best would say that he is
fit for anything; yet these are the stinging words
that confront him in the crisis of his young career.

'Not fit for the Kingdom of God!'

He is the kind of fellow upon whom you would
bestow a second glance if it were your good fortune
to meet him on the street. He is tall, lithe, hand-
some, and splendidly proportioned. He strikes you
as having every nerve and sinew under perfect con-
trol. His face is vigorous and arresting. Without
seeming in the least degree self-assertive or pugna-
cious, it suggests boundless energy and dauntless
resolution. His eyes are grey and full of mischief.
His voice is resonant, impressive, commanding. His
laugh is boisterous, contagious, unforgettable. Al-
though still young, he has travelled widely; has
visited the famous cities of the continent; and, in

173

174 A Bunch of Everlastings

his own yacht, has navigated the waterways of
Europe. He is just filnishing his university career at
Oxford. Come with me to his room at St. Mary's
Hall ; and, as you glance around its walls, the medley
of objects that will meet the eye will furnish us with
some index to his character. In the centre of every-
thing is a portrait of his mother, a stately and
beautiful lady, from whom he has inherited many
of his noblest traits. Arranged around it are the
bones of many curious monsters, and the crude but
cunning weapons of barbarous peoples. In the
corner stands a miscellaneous collection of riding-
whips; whilst here, under the window, stands a
tank, in which numbers of live fish disport them-
selves. For our gay young undergraduate is a
naturalist; the woods and the waters have taken
him into their confidence and have freely yielded
up their secrets.

Here he is, then, standing on the threshold of
destiny! He appears to be one of fortune's darlings.
All that exceptional gifts, careful training, extensive
travel, and the highest education can do for a man
has been done for him. And yet, as he prepares to
turn all these priceless advantages to some account,
and to set his face seriously towards his Hfework,
these are the words that smite him in the face and
stab him to the quick !

'Not fit for the Kingdom of God!'

Like the rich young ruler whom he so strikingly

James Hannington's Text 175

resembles, he turns away sorrowful. The gaiety
of his spirit is clouded in gloom. 'Not fit for the
Kingdom of God!' What is it that, with all his
charms and his accomplishments, he still lacks?

It is on the eve of his ordination that these cruel
words rebuke him. For, in striving to equip himself
for the useful life that he so earnestly desires, he
he has by no means forgotten the loftiest claims of
all. The fear of God is constantly before his eyes.
With all his fun and frolic, his passion for sport and
his thirst for adventure, James Hannington is in
reality a fervently religious youth. At the back of
his mind he is revolving some tremendous problems.
Let me copy a couple of entries from his private
journal. The one was written in his eighteenth
year; the other in his twentieth.

'March 20, 1868: I have been much tempted of
late to turn Roman Catholic, and nearly did so, but
my faith has been much shaken by reading Cardinal
Manning's Funeral Sermon for Cardinal Wiseman,
over whose death I mourned much. He said that
Cardinal Wiseman's last words were: "Let me
have all that the Church can do for me !" I seemed
to see at once that if the highest ecclesiastic stood
thus in need of external rites on his death-bed, the
system must be rotten, and I gave up all idea of
departing from our Protestant faith.'

From this significant entry, with its revelation of

176 A Bunch of Everlastings

great thoughts stirring in his soul, I turn to one of
a very different kind, yet of no less value.

'February g, 1867: I lost my ring out shooting,
with scarcely a hope of ever seeing it again. I
offered to give the gamekeeper ten shillings if he
found it, and was led to ask God that the ring might
be found and be to me a sure sign of salvation.
From that moment the ring seemed on my finger,
and I was not surprised when Sayers brought it to
me on Monday evening. He had picked it up in the
long grass in cover, a most unlikely place ever to
find it. A miracle! Jesus, by Thee alone can we
obtain remission of our sins !'

The diary contains a footnote to this entry, writ-
ten by Hannington some years afterwards. 'This,'
he says, 'was written by me* at the most worldly
period of my existence.* Yet there it is! These
entries prove that, however far from the Kingdom
Hannington may then have been, he kept his face
turned wistfully and steadfastly towards its gates.
The deep religious impulses throbbing in his soul
moved him to associate himself with the church ; to
receive upon his lips the awful mysteries of the
Christian sacrament; and, later on, to apply for or-
dination. But, as he drew nearer to that solemn
and searching ceremony, his conscience cried out
and his heart failed him,

'How I dread my ordination !' he writes. 'I would
willingly draw back; but, when I am tempted to do
so, I hear ringing in my ears : "No man, having put

James Hannington's Text 177

his hand to the plough and looking back is fit for the
Kingdom of God." What am I to do? What?'

What, indeed? He felt that he was 'not fit for
the Kingdom of God' and dare not go on! And
yet, if he turned back, he was only giving fuller
evidence of his unfitness ! Here was a dilemma !
He resolved at length to go on, and, in going on,
to seek with full purpose of heart that fitness that
he felt he lacked. 'It is characteristic of the man,'
says his biographer, 'that he should have faced what
he now dreaded with an almost morbid fear. His
conscience would have absolved him on no other
terms. "No man, having put his hand to the plough,
and looking back, is fit for the Kingdom of God."
Those words held him fast to his purpose !' So he
made his decision. But the decision did not relieve
his deep spiritual embarrassment, for, whilst he felt
that he dared not look back, he felt that he was
unfit to go on.

'Not fit for the Kingdom of God!'

'Not fit for the Kingdom of God!'
The words beat themselves into his brain. It was
a terrible situation and he saw no way of escape.

Ill

The way of escape came by post. It sometimes
does. There are a few choice spirits in God's world
who have mastered the high art of conducting a
religioub correspondence. They can write without
gush and without gloom: their letters are neither

178 A Bunch of Everlastings

sentimental nor sanctimonious. His old comrade
and chum, the Rev. E. C. Dawson, M.A., who
afterwards became his biographer, was, about this
time, greatly concerned on Hannington's behalf.
*I could not tell why,' he says, 'but the burden
seemed to press upon me more heavily day by day.'
At last he resolved to write. He knew Hannington's
scorn of cant, and feared that such a letter would
offend him. 'Still,' he says, 'I reasoned that, if
friendship was to be lost, it should be at least well
lost. So I wrote a simple, unvarnished account of
my own spiritual experience. I tried to explain how
it was that I was not now as formerly. I spoke of
the power of the love of Christ to transform the
life of a man and to draw out all its latent possibili-
ties; and, finally, I urged him, as he loved his own
soul, to make a definite surrender of himself to the
Saviour of the world.' And the result? For the
result we must turn to the diary :

'July 15 : Dawson, who is now a curate in Surrey,
opened a correspondence with me to-day which I
can only describe as delightful. It led to my con-
version!'

'I was in bed at the time, reading,' he says, in a
note written years afterwards. 'I sprang out of
bed and leaped about the room rejoicing and praising
God that Jesus died for me. From that day to this,
I have lived under the shadow of His wings in the
assurance that I am His and He is mine!'

And, writing to Mr. Dawson, the author of the

James Hannington's Text 179

letter, he says : *I have never seen so much hght as
during the past few days. I know now that Jesus died
for me, and that He is mine and I am His. I ought
daily to be more thankful to you as the instrument
by whom I was brought to Christ. Unspeakable
joy!'

'It led to my conversion!'

*I know now that Jesus died for me!'

* Unspeakable joy! Unspeakable joy!'

Five years, filled with happy and fruitful minis-
tries, pass away. He is now a proud husband and
the father of a little family. All at once, England
is stirred to its depths by the news that Lieut.
Shergold Smith and Mr. O'Neill have been mur-
dered on the shore of Victoria Nyanza. It afifects
Hannington like a challenge. He longs to go and
fill one of the vacant places. Unable to resist the
call, he offers — and is accepted! As the time for
his departure approaches, he realises the bitterness
of the ordeal that he must face. His people! The
congregation is in tears whenever he enters the
pulpit. His wife, who had so bravely consented to
his application, but who finds it so hard to let him
go! His little ones! This,* he says, as he records
the anguish of farewell, 'this was my most bitter
trial — an agony that still cleaves to me — saying
good-bye to the little ones. Thank God that all the

i8o A Bunch of Everlastings

pain was on one side. Over and over again I thank
Him for that ! "Come back soon, papa !" they cried.
Then the servants, all attached to me. My wife, the
bravest of them all !* Over the chapter that tells of
such experiences his biographer has inscribed a
quotation from Epictetus:

'If some wifeling or childling be granted you, well
and good; but, if the Captain call, run to the ship,
and leave such possessions behind you, not looking
back!'

But, if the work had been an autobiography, and
if Hannington himself had chosen the inscription
for the heading of that chapter, he would have
selected the words that surged through his brain
every day and many times a day:

'No man, having put his hand to the plough, and
looking back, is fit for the Kingdom of God!'

'No man looking back!' cries the philosopher.

'No man looking back, is fit for the Kingdom of
God,' says Hannington's text.

With such words in his heart he fought his way
through his valley of weeping and set out for
Darkest Africa.

But he was driven back, as even the bravest
sometimes are. In Africa he was beset by fever
after fever. For weeks on end he could not rise
from his mattress. His emaciation was terrible to
behold. 'Can it be long before I die?' he said one

James Hanninffton's Text iSi

day to Cyril Gordon. 'No,' replied his companion,
'nor can you desire that it should be so !' *I have a
distinct remembrance,' says Mr.Copplestone, another
member of the party, 'of one of the few walks which
he was able to take with myself. "Copplestone," he
said, "I do not think that I can recover from this
illness. Let us go that we may choose a place for
my grave." So we went, and he selected a spot
where he said we were to bury him. He did not
expect that he could live long in such a state as that
in which he then was.' A day or two later, Mr.
Stokes, who had left the party to find a road to the
Lake Victoria Nyanza, unexpectedly returned. But
let the diary tell its own story :

'October 6 : Slightly better, but still in very great
pain. To our immense surprise, Stokes turned up
early this morning. When I heard his voice I ex-
claimed, "I shall live and not die." It inspired me
with new life. I felt that they had returned that I
might go with them.'

And so they had! He had to be carried in a
hammock, however. In the course of the journey
he was often at death's door. Clearly, there was
nothing for it but a return to England. Yet, all the
way home, he felt that he was beating a retreat.

'No man, having put his hand to the plough, and
looking back, is fit for the Kingdom of God!' The
words haunted him night and day as he paced the
deck of the homebound steamer.

'Forgive the one that turned back!' It is with

1 82 A Bunch of Everlastings

that penitent petition that he closes this chapter of
the diary.

He turned back, but not for long. He had put
his hand to the plough, and he felt that, to show
himself fit for the Kingdom of God, he must faith-
fully finish the furrow. He had solemnly given
himself to Africa, and he was unwilling to take back
his gift. In 1883, at the age of thirty-six, he found
himself in England, rejoicing in the sweet society
of wife and children and friends. Little by little
his health came back to him; and with its coming,
his old text said its say :

*Not fit for the Kingdom of God!'

'No man looking hack, is fit for the Kingdom of
God!'

'No man, having put his hand to the plough, and
looking hack, is fit for the Kingdom of God!'

In Mr. Dawson's great biography, only half a
dozen pages intervene between his arrival in Eng-
land in June, 1883, and his consecration as Bishop
of Eastern Equatorial Africa, in the June of the
following year. On returning to the dark continent
he is overjoyed at finding his health as robust as it
formerly was precarious. *I have to praise God,'
he says, in one of his early notes, 'for one of the
most successful journeys, as a journey, that I ever
took. During a tramp of over four hundred miles,
I have enjoyed most excellent health.' He delighted

James Hannington's Text 183

his friends by completing this preHminary march
'sunburnt and shaggy, but glowing with vigour.'
Having thus tested his physical resources, he pre-
pared for his great march to Uganda. The story
of that famous and fateful journey need not be
retold. It is one of the world's great romances.
Everybody knows now that, all unsuspecting, the
Bishop went straight to his death. A new king was
on the throne : the white men were no longer in
favour : the natives were ready to murder the first
Englishman they saw. As soon as he drew near
to the seat of government, he was seized. 'I felt,'
he says in his last journal, 'that I was being dragged
away to be murdered ; but I sang, "Safe in the Arms
of Jesus," and laughed at the very agony of my
situation.' Each day, though naked, starving, and
racked with excruciating pains, he dots down in his
diary the thoughts that comfort him. He can only
write two or three words at a time, but he contrives
to enter up the journal to the last. *No news!' he
says, in the final entry. 'I was upheld by the
thirtieth Psalm, which came with great power. A
hyena howled near me last night, smelling a sick
man, but I hope it is not to have me yet.' The next
day the native warriors, sent by the king, came to
kill him. He struggled to his feet, stood erect, and
told them that he was glad to die for them and for
their people. Seeing them hesitate as to how to
end his life, he pointed to his own gun, and, with it,
they despatched him. He was only thirty-eight.

z84 A Bunch of Everlastings

To-day a great cathedral marks the spot where he
fell. 'Never in my life was I so moved,' says
Bishop Tucker, 'as when I preached in that cathedral
to a congregation of from four to five thousand
people. Many of the communicants bore upon their
bodies the scars and disfigurements of their former
barbarity.' Clearly he did not die in vain.

'If,' he says, in his last letter, 'if this is the last
chapter of my earthly history, then the next will be
the first page of the heavenly — no blots and smudges,
no incoherence, but sweet converse in the Presence
of the Lamb!'

He put his hand to the plough!

He finished his furrow, never looking back!

He was fit for the Kingdom of God!

XVIII
WILLIAM WILBERFORCE'S TEXT

The hand that struck the shackles from the galled
limbs of our British slaves was the hand of a hunch-
back. One of the triumphs of statuary in West-
minster Abbey is the seated figure that, whilst faith-
fully perpetuating the noble face and fine features
of Wilberforce, skilfully conceals his frightful
physical deformities. From infancy he was an
elfish, misshapen little figure. At the Grammar
School at Hull, the other boys would lift his tiny,
twisted form on to the table and make him go
through all his impish tricks. For, though so piti-
fully stunted and distorted, he was amazingly
sprightly, resourceful and clever. A master of
mimicry, a born actor, an accomplished singer and a
perfect elocutionist, he was as agile, also, as a mon-
key and as full of mischief. Every day he enlivened
his performance by the startling introduction of
some fresh antics that convulsed alike his school-
fellows and his teachers. He is the most striking
illustration that history can offer of a grotesque
and insignificant form glorified by its consecration to
a great and noble cause. Recognising the terrible

185

1 86 A Bunch of Everlastings

handicap that Nature had imposed upon him, he set
himself to counterbalance matters by acquiring a
singular graciousness and charm of manner. He
succeeded so perfectly that his courtliness and grace
became proverbial. It was said of him that, if you
saw him in conversation with a man, you would
suppose that the man was his brother, or, if with
a woman, that he was her lover. He made men for-
get his strange appearance. When he sprang to his
feet to plead the cause of the slave, he seemed like
a man inspired, and his disfigurement magically
vanished, *I saw,' says Boswell, in his letter to
Mr. Dundas, *I saw a shrimp mount the table; but,
as I listened, he grew and grew until the shrimp
became a whale!' When he rose to address the
House of Commons, he looked like a dwarf that
had jumped out of a fairy-tale; when he resumed
his seat, he looked like the giant of the self-same
story. His form, as the Times said, 'was like the
letter S; it resembled a stick that could not be
straightened.' Yet his hearers declare that his face,
when pleading for the slave, was like the face of an
angel. The ugliness of his little frame seemed to
disappear; and, under the magic of his passionate
eloquence, his form became sublime. When, in 1833,
he passed away, such a funeral procession made its
way to Westminster Abbey as even London had
rarely witnessed. He was borne to his last resting
place by the Peers and Commoners of England with
the Lord Chancellor at their head. In imperishable

William Wilberforce's Text 187

marble it was recorded of him that 'he had removed
from England the guilt of the slave-trade and pre-
pared the way for the abolition of slavery in every
colony in the Empire.* And it is said that, as the
cortege made its sombre way through the crowded
streets, all London was in tears, and one person in
every four was garbed in deepest black.

Among Sir James Stephen's masterpieces of bio-
logical analysis, there is nothing finer than his essay
on Wilberforce. But he confesses to a difficulty.
There is, he says, something hidden. You cannot
account for his stupendous influence by pointing to
anything that lies upon the surface. 'What that
hidden life really was,' Sir James observes, 'none
but himself could know, and few indeed could even
plausibly conjecture. But even they who are the
least able to solve the enigma may acknowledge and
feel that there was some secret spring of action on
which his strength was altogether dependent.' Now,
what was that hidden factor ? What was the 'secret
spring of action' that explains this strangely-
handicapped yet wonderfully-useful life? Can I
lay my finger on the source of all these beneficent
energies? Can I trace the hidden power that im-
pelled and directed these fruitful and epoch-making
activities? I think I can. Behind all that appears
upon the surface there lies a great experience, a

x88 A Bunch of Everlastings

great thought, a great text. I find it at the begin-
ning of his career; I find it again at the close.

As a youth, preparing himself to play some worthy
part in life, Wilberforce travels. Thrice he tours
Europe, once in the company of William Pitt, then
a young fellow of exactly his own age, and twice
in the company of Isaac Milner, the brilliant brother
of his Hull schoolmaster. It was in the course of
one of these tours that the crisis of his inner life
overtook him. Milner and he made it a practice to
carry with them a few books to read on rainy days.
Among these oddly-assorted volumes they slipped
into their luggage a copy of Dr. Doddridge's 'Rise
and Progress of Religion in the Soul.' It was a
dangerous companion for young men who prized
their peace of mind ; no book of that period had
provoked more serious thought. It certainly set
Wilberforce thinking; and not all the festivities of
his tour nor the laughter of his friends could dispel
the feeling that now took sole possession of his mind.
One over-powering emotion drove out all others.
It haunted him sleeping and waking. 'My sin !' he
cried, 'my sin, my sin, my sin !' — it was this thought
of his condition that filled him with apprehension
and despair.

'The deep guilt and black ingratitude of my past
life,' he says, 'forced itself upon me in the strongest
colours; and I condemned myself for having wasted
my precious time and talents. It was not so much
the fear of punishment as a sense of my great sin-

William Wilberforce's Text 189

fulness. Such was the effect which this thought
produced that for months I was in a state of the
deepest depression from strong conviction of my
guilt!'

My deep guilt!

My great sinfulness!

My black ingratitude!

It was then, at the age of twenty-six, that his
soul gathered itself up in one great and bitter
cry.

'God be merciful to me a sinner!' he implored;
and, on receiving an assurance that his prayer was
heard — as all such prayers must be — he breaks out
in a new strain, 'What infinite love,' he says, 'that
Christ should die to save such a sinner!'

'My sin! My sin! My sin!'

'God be merciful to me a sinner!'

'That Christ should die to save such a sinner!'
This was in 1785. Wilberforce stood then at the
dawn of his great day.

For the second scene we must pass over nearly
half a century. His career is drawing to its close.
The twisted little body is heavily swathed in wrap-
pings and writhes in pain. Hearing of his serious
sickness, his Quaker friend, Mr. Joseph Gurney,
comes to see him.

'He received me with the warmest marks of af-
fection,' Mr. Gurney says, 'and seemed delighted
at the unexpected arrival of an old friend. The
illuminated expression of his furrowed countenance.

iQo A Bunch of Everlastings

with his clasped and uplifted hands, were indicative
of profound devotion and holy joy. He un-
folded his experience to me in a highly interesting
manner.'

'With regard to myself,' said Mr. Wilberforce,
before taking a last farewell of his friend, 'with re-
gard to myself, I have nothing whatever to urge but
the poor publican's plea, "God he merciful to me a
sinner!" '

'These words,' adds Mr. Gurney, 'were expressed
with peculiar feeling and emphasis.'

'God he merciful to me a sinner!' — it was the
cry of his heart in 1785, as his life lay all before
him.

'God he merciful to me a sinner!' — it was still the
cry of his heart in 1833, the time when his life
lay all behind.

Here, then, is William Wilberforce's text! It
will do us good to listen to it as, once and again,
it falls from his lips. In outlining the events that
led Christiana to forsake the City of Destruction
and to follow her husband on pilgrimage, Bunyan
tells us that she had a dream, 'And behold, in her
dream, she saw as if a broad parchment was opened
before her, in which was recorded the sum of her
ways; and the times, as she thought, looked very
black upon her. Then she cried out aloud in her
sleep, "God he merciful to me a sinner!" And the
little children heard her,' It was well that she cried :
it was well that the children heard: it led to their

William Wilberforce's Text 191

setting out together for the Cross, the Palace Beau-
tiful and the City of Light. It will be well indeed
for us if, listening to William Wilber force as he
offers the same agonising petition, we, like Chris-
tiana's children, become followers of his faith and
sharers of his joy.

Ill

They are very few, I suppose, who would envy
William Wilberforce the wretchedness that dark-
ened his soul at Spa in the course of that third
European tour, the wretchedness that led him to cry
out for the everlasting mercy. He was then twenty-
six; and if any young fellow of twenty-six enter-
tains the slightest doubt as to the desirability of such
a mournful experience, I should like to introduce
that young fellow first to Robinson Crusoe and then
to old William Cottee, of Theydon Bois. We all
remember the scene in which Robinson Crusoe, soon
after his shipwreck, searched the old chest for to-
bacco and found — a Bible! He began to read. *It
was not long after I set seriously to this work,' he
tells us, 'that I found my heart more deeply and
sincerely affected with the wickedness of my past
life. The impression of my dream revived, and the
words, "All these things have not brought thee to
repentance," ran seriously in my thoughts. I was
earnestly begging of God to give me repentance,
when it happened providentially, that very day, that,
reading the Scripture, I came to these words, "He

igi A Bunch of Everlastings

is exalted a Prince and a Saviour to give repentance
and to give remission." I threw down the book,
and, with my heart as well as my hands lifted up to
Heaven, in a kind of ecstasy of joy, I cried out
aloud, "J^sus, Thou Son of David, Thou exalted
Prince and Saviour, give me repentance." This was
the first time that I could say, in the true sense of
the word, that I prayed in all my life!'

'Give me repentance!' — this was Robinson Cru-
soe's first prayer. But, for William Wilberforce,
bemoaning at Spa the list of his transgressions, the
prayer is already answered. They may pity him
who will : Robinson Crusoe will ofifer him nothing
but congratulations.

So will old William Cottee. The old gentleman
was well over ninety, and was bedridden, when, in
my college days, I visited him. He has long since
passed from his frailty to his felicity. I used occa-
sionally to preach in the village sanctuary, and was
more than once the guest of the household that he
adorned. No such visit was complete without an
invitation to go upstairs and have a talk with grand-
father. As a rule, however, those talks with grand-
father were a little embarrassing — to a mere student.
For a ministerial student moves in an atmosphere in
which his theological opinions are treated, to say
the least, with respect. He is quite sure of them
himself, and he likes other people to exhibit equal
confidence. But poor old William Cottee had no
respect at all for any theological opinions of mine.

William Wilberforce's Text 193

He was a sturdy old hyper-Calvinist, and, to him,
the doctrines that I expounded with such assurance
were mere milk and water, mostly water. One
afternoon I found the old gentleman bewailing the
exceeding sinfulness of his evil heart. This seemed
to me, viewing the matter from the point of view of
a theological student, a very primitive experience
for so mature a saint. Perhaps I as good as said
so : I forget. I only remember that, in response to
my shallow observation, the old gentleman sat
straight up in bed — a thing I had never seen him do
before — stared at me with eyes so full of reproach
that they seemed to pierce my very soul, and slowly
recited a verse that I had never before heard and
have never since forgotten :

What comfort can a Saviour bring
To those who never felt their woe?

A sinner is a sacred thing

The Holy Ghost hath made him so !

Ministers often learn from those they seem to
teach; but it rarely happens that a profound and
awful and searching truth rushes as startlingly upon
a man as this one did that day upon me. It is a hard
saying; who can hear it? But the wise will under-
stand. Because of the lesson that he then taught
me — to say nothing of the fact that one of his grand-
daughters has proved for many years the best wife
any minister ever had — I have always thought kindly
of old William Cottee. I never heard the old man
refer to Robinson Crusoe in any way; but I am sure

194 A Bunch of Everlastings

that he would join the redoubtable islander in con-
gratulating William Wilberforce on the experience
that overtook him in his twenty-sixth year. The
sunlit passages in life are not always the most profit-
able : it is through much tribulation that we enter the
kingdom.

^My sin! My sin! My sin!'

'God be merciful to me a sinner!'

'What infinite love that Christ should die to save
such a sinner!'

Wilberforce felt that such infinite love demanded
the fullest requital he could possibly offer. Those
who have been greatly saved must greatly serve. I
like to think of that memorable day on which the
two friends — Wilberforce and Pitt — lay sprawling
on the grass under a grand old oak tree in the beau-
tiful park at Hoi wood, in Kent. A solid stone seat
now stands beside the tree, bearing an inscription
commemorative of the historic occasion. For it was
then — and there — that Wilberforce solemnly de-
voted his life to the emancipation of the slaves. He
had introduced the subject with some diffidence;
was delighted at Pitt's evident sympathy; and,
springing to his feet, he declared that he wjould set
to work at once to abolish the iniquitous traffic. Few
of us realise the immense proportions that the British
slave trade had then assumed. During the eighteenth
century, nearly a million blacks were transported,

William Wilberforce's Text 195

with much less consideration than would have been
shown to cattle, from Africa to Jamaica alone. From
his earliest infancy, the horror of the traffic preyed
upon the sensitive mind of William Wilberforce.
When quite a boy he wrote to the papers, protesting
against 'this odious traffic in human flesh.' Now,
a young fellow in the twenties, he made its extinc-
tion the purpose of his life. For fifty years he never
rested. Through evil report and through good, he
tirelessly pursued his ideal. At times the opposition
seemed insuperable. But Pitt stood by him; the
Quakers and a few others encouraged him to per-
sist; John Wesley, only a few days before his death,
wrote begging the reformer never to give up. After
twenty years of incessant struggle, it was enacted
that the exportation of slaves from Africa should
cease; but no relief was offered to those already in
bondage. A quarter of a century later, as Wilber-
force lay dying, messengers from Westminster en-
tered his room to tell him that at last, at last, the
Emancipation Bill had been passed ; the slaves were
free! 'Thank God!' exclaimed the dying man,
'thank God that I have lived to see this day!' Like
Wolfe at Quebec, like Nelson at Trafalgar, like Sir
John Franklin in the North- West Passage, he died
in the flush of triumph. He had resolved that, as
an expression of his gratitude for his own deliv-
erance, he would secure for the slaves their free-
dom; and he passed away rejoicing that their fetters
were all broken and gone.

196 A Bunch of Everlastings

'God he merciful to me a sinner!' — this was his
prayer in 1785, as his Hfe lay all before him.

'God he mercifiil to me a sinner!' — this was his
prayer in 1833, as he lay a-dying with his life-work
done.

William Wilberforce reminds me of William
MacLure. There were many saints in Drumtochty,
but there was no greater saint than old Dr. MacLure.
Rich and poor, young and old ; the good doctor on
his white pony had fought his way through the dark
nights and the deep snowdrifts of the glen to help
and heal them all. And now he is dying himself!
Drumsheugh sits beside the bed. The doctor asks
him to read a bit. Drumsheugh puts on his specta-
cles.

*Ma mither/ he says, *aye wanted this read tae
her when she was sairly sick,' and he begins to read
'In My Father's house are many mansions . . . .*
But the doctor stops him.

Tt's a bonnie word,' he says, 'but it's no for
the likes o' me!' And he makes him read
the parable of the Pharisee and the Publican till
he comes to the words, 'God he merciful to me
a sinner!'

'That micht hae been written for me, Drum-
sheugh, or any ither auld sinner that has feenished
his life, an' hes naething tae say for himself.'

Exactly so spake William Wilberforce. Mr.

William Wilberforce's Text 197

Gurney quoted many great and comfortable Scrip-
tures, but the dying man shook his head.

*With regard to myself,' he said, 'I have nothing
whatever to urge but the poor publican's plea, *'God
be merciful to me a sinner!" '

In what better company than in the company of
William MacLure and William Wilberforce can we
enter the kingdom of God?

XIX
JOHN WESLEY'S TEXT

John Wesley made history wholesale. *You can-
not cut him out of our national life,' Mr. Augustine
Birrell declares. If you could, the gap would be
as painful as though you had overthrown the Nelson
column in Trafalgar Square or gashed Mount
Everest out of the Himalaya Ranges. Lecky, who is
a pastmaster in the art of analysing great movements
and in tracing the psychological influences from
which they sprang, says that the conversion of John
Wesley formed one of the grand epochs of English
history. His conversion, mark you! Lecky goes
on to say that the religious revolution begun in Eng-
land by the preaching of the Wesleys is of greater
historic importance than all the splendid victories
by land and sea won under Pitt. The momentous
event to which the historian points, be it noted, is
not Wesley's birth, but his re-birth. It is his con-
version that counts. In order that I may scrutinise
once more the record of that tremendous event in
our national annals, I turn afresh to Wesley's jour-
nal. It was on May 24, 1738. Wesley was engaged
in those days in a persistent and passionate quest.

198

John Wesley's Text 199

He had crossed the Atlantic as a missionary only
to discover the waywardness and wickedness of his
own evil heart. 'What have I learned?' he asks
himself when he finds himself once more on English
soil. 'What have I learned? Why, I have learned
what I least of all suspected, that I, who went to
America to convert the Indians, was never myself
converted to God!' One day, early in 1738, he is
chatting with three of his friends when all at once
they begin to speak of their faith, the faith that
leads to pardon, the faith that links a man with God,
the faith that brings joy and peace through believing.
Wesley feels that he would give the last drop of his
blood to secure for himself such an unspeakable
treasure. Could such a faith be his ? he asks his com-
panions. 'They replied with one mouth that this
faith was the gift, the free gift of God, and that He
would surely bestow it upon every soul who earnestly
and perseveringly sought it.' Wesley made up his
mind that, this being so, it should be his. *I resolved
to seek it unto the end,' he says. *I continued to
seek it,' he writes again, *until May 24, 1738.' And,
on May 24, 1738, he found it! That Wednesday
morning, before he went out, he opened his Bible
haphazard, and a text leapt out at him. 'Thou art
not very far from the kingdom of God!' It strangely
reassured him.

*The kingdom of God!'

'Far from the kingdom of God!'

'Not very far from the kingdom of God!*

200 A Bunch of Everlastings

How far ? He was so near that, that very evening,
he entered it ! 'In the evening' he says, in the entry
that has become one of the monuments of English
literature, 'in the evening I went very unwillingly
to a society in Aldersgate Street, where one was
reading Luther's preface to the Epistle to the
Romans. About a quarter before nine, zvhile he was
describing the change which God works in the heart
through faith in Christ, I felt my heart strangely
warmed. I felt I did trust in Christ, Christ alone,
for salvation: and an assurance was given me that
He had taken away my sins, even mine, and saved
me from the laivs of sin and death.'

Here is a sailor ! He finds himself far, far from
port, with no chart, no compass, no hope of ever
reaching his desired haven ! Later on, he shades his
eyes with his hand and actually sees the bluff head-
lands that mark the entrance to the harbor : he is not
very far from the city of his desire ! And, later still,
the bar crossed and the channel found, he finds
himself lying at anchor in the bay.

So it was with John Wesley. When he returned
from Georgia, he was far, very far from the king-
dom of God. When he opened his Bible that
Wednesday morning, he was not very far from the
kingdom of God. And that same evening, at Aiders-
gate Street, he passed through the gates into the
Hght and liberty of the kingdom.

So far from the kingdom!

Not far from the kingdom!

John Wesley's Text 201

The kingdom! The kingdom! The kingdom of
God!

It is a beautiful thing to have been brought near
to the kingdom of God. Many influences combined
to bring John Wesley near. To begin with, he had a
mother; one of the most amazing mothers that even
England — that land of noble mothers — has pro-
duced. Susanna Wesley was a marvel of nature
and a miracle of grace. To begin with, she was the
twenty-fifth child of her father ; and, to go on with,
she had nineteen children of her own! And she
found time for each of them. In one of her
letters, she tells how deeply impressed she was on
reading the story of the evangelistic efforts of the
Danish missionaries in India. *It came into my
mind,' she says, 'that I might do more than I do.
I resolved to begin with my own children. I take
such proportion of time as I can best spare to dis-
course every night with each child by itself.' Later
on, people began to marvel at her remarkable in-
fluence over her children. 'There is no mystery
about the matter,' she writes again, 'I just took
Molly alone with me into my own room every Mon-
day night, Hetty every Tuesday night, Nancy every
Wednesday night, Jacky every Thursday night,
and so on, all through the week ; that was all !* Yes,
that was all; but see how it turned out! *I cannot
remember,' says John Wesley, *I cannot remember

202 A Bunch of Everlastings

ever having kept back a doubt from my mother;
she was the one heart to whom I went in absolute
confidence, from my babyhood until the day of her
death/ Such an influence could only tend to bring
him near to the kingdom of God.

Then there was the fire ! John never forgot that
terrible night. He was only six. He woke up to
find the old rectory ablaze from the ground to the
roof. By some extraordinary oversight, he had been
forgotten when everybody else was dragged from
the burning building. In the nick of time, just
before the roof fell in with a crash, a neighbour,
by climbing on another man's shoulders, contrived
to rescue the terrified child at the window. To the
last day of his life Wesley preserved a crude picture
of the scene. And underneath it was written, *Is
not this a brand plucked from the burning?' It
affected him as a somewhat similar escape affected
Clive. 'Surely God intends to do some great thing
by me that He has sq miraculously preserved me!'
exclaimed the man who afterwards added India to
the British Empire. When a young fellow of
eighteen, Richard Baxter was thrown by a restive
horse under the wheel of a heavy waggon. Quite
unaccountably, the horse instantly stopped. 'My
life was miraculously saved,' he wrote, 'and I then
and there resolved that it should be spent in the
service of others.' Dr. Guthrie regarded as one of
the potent spiritual influences of his life his mar-
vellous deliverance from being dashed to pieces over

John Wesley's Text 203

a precipice at Arbroath. In his 'Grace Abounding,'
Bunyan tells how he was affected by the circum-
stance that the man who took his place at the siege
of Leicester was shot through the head whilst on
sentry-duty and killed instantly. Such experiences
tend to bring men within sight of the kingdom of
God. Wesley never forgot the fire.

Ill

It is a great thing to recognise that, though near
to the kingdom, one is still outside.

Sir James Simpson, the discoverer of chloroform,
used to say that the greatest discovery that he ever
made was the discovery that he was a sinner and that
Jesus Christ was just the Saviour he needed. John
Wesley could have said the same. But, whereas
Sir James Simpson was able to point to the exact
date on which the sense of his need broke upon him,
John Wesley is not so explicit. He tells us that it
was in Georgia that he discovered that he, the would-
be converter of Indians, was himself unconverted.
And yet, before he left England, he wrote to a
friend that his chief motive in going abroad was the
salvation of his own soul. As soon as he arrived
on the other side of the Atlantic, he made the ac-
quaintance of August Spangenberg, a Moravian
pastor. A conversation took place which Wesley
records in his journal as having deeply impressed
him.

*My brother,' said the devout and simple-minded

204 A Bunch of Everlastings

man whose counsel he had sought, *I must ask you
one or two questions: Do you know Jesus Christ?'

*I know,' repHed Wesley, after an awkward pause,
*I know that he is the Saviour of the world.'

'True,' answered the Moravian, 'but do you know
that He has saved you?'

*I hope He has died to save me,' Wesley re-
sponded.

The Moravian was evidently dissatisfied with
these vague replies, but he asked one more question.

'Do you know yourself !'

*I said that I did,' Wesley tells us in his journal,
'but I fear they were vain words !'

He saw others happy, fearless in the presence of
aeath, rejoicing in a faith that seemed to trans-
figure their lives. What was it that was theirs and
yet not his? 'Are they read in philosophy?' he
asks. 'So was I. In ancient or modern tongues?
So was I also. Are they versed in the science of
divinity? I, too, have studied it many years. Can
they talk fluently upon spiritual things? I could
do the same. Are they plenteous in alms ? Behold,
I give all my goods to feed the poor! I have
laboured more abundantly than they all. Are they
willing to suffer for their brethren? I have thrown
up my friends, reputation, ease, country; I have
put my life in my hand, wandering into strange
lands ; I have given my body to be devoured by the
deep, parched up with heat, consumed by toil and
weariness. But does all this make me acceptable

John Wesley's Text 205

to God! Does all this make me a Christian? By
no means! I have sinned and come short of the
glory of God. I am alienated from the life of God.
I am a child of wrath. I have no hope.' It is a great
thing, I say, for a man who has been brought within
sight of the kingdom to recognise frankly that he is,
nevertheless, still outside it.

It is a fine thing for a man zvho feels that he is

outside the kingdom to enter into it.

In his 'Cheapside to Arcady,' Mr. Arthur Scam-
mell describes the pathetic figure of an old man he
often saw in a London slum. 'He had crept forth
from some poor house hard by, and, propped up by
a crutch, was sitting on the edge of a low wall in
the unclean, sunless alley, whilst, only a few yards
further on, was the pleasant open park, with sun-
shine, trees and flowers, the river and fresh air, and,
withal, a more comfortable seat : but the poor old
man never even looked that way. I have often seen
him since, always in the same place, and felt that I
should like to ask him why he sits there in darkness,
breathing foul air, when the blessed sunshine is
waiting for him only ten yards off.'

So near to the sunshine!

So near to the kingdom!

Unlike Mr. Scammell's old man, John Wesley
made the great transition from shadow to sunshine,
from squalor to song.

2o6 A Bunch of Everlastings

*Dost thou believe,' asked Staupitz, the wise old
monk, 'dost thou believe in the forgiveness of sins ?*

'I believe,' replied Luther, reciting a clause from
his familiar credo, 'I believe in the forgiveness of
sins !'

'Ah,' exclaimed the elder monk, 'but you must not
only believe in the forgiveness of David's sins and
Peter's sins, for this even the devils believe. It is
God's command that we believe our own sins are
forgiven us!'

'From that moment,' says D'Aubigne, 'light
sprung up in the heart of the young monk at Erfurt.'

'I believed,' says Luther, 'that my sins, even mine,
were forgiven me !'

'I did trust in Christ, Christ alone, for salvation,'
says Wesley, in his historic record, 'and an assur-
ance was given me that He had taken away my sins,
even mine!'

The analogy is suggested by the circumstance that
it was Luther's commentary that was being read
aloud at Aldersgate Street that night.

'My sins, even mine!' says Luther.

'My sins, even mine!' says Wesley.

Forty-five years afterwards Mr. Wesley was
taken very ill at Bristol and expected to die. Calling
Mr. Badford to his bedside, he observed: 'I have
been reflecting on my past life. I have been wan-
dering up and down, these many years, endeavour-
ing, in my poor way, to do a little good to my fellow-
creatures; and now it is probable that there is but

John Wesley's Text 207

a step between me and death; and what have I to
trust to for salvation? I can see nothing which I
have done or suffered that will bear looking at. I
have no other plea than this :

"I the chief of sinners am,
But Jesus died for me." '

Eight years later — fifty-three years after the great
change at Aldersgate Street — he was actually dying.
As his friends surrounded his bedside, he told them
that he had no more to say. *I said at Bristol,' he
murmured, 'that

"I the chief of sinners am,
But Jesus died for me." '

'Is that/ one asked, 'the present language of your
heart, and do you feel now as you did then ?' 'I do,*
replied the dying veteran.

This, then, was the burden of Wesley's tre-
mendous ministry for more than fifty-three years.
It was the confidence of his life and the comfort of
his death. It was his first thought every morning
and his last every night. It was the song of his
soul, the breath of his nostrils, and the light of his
eyes. This was the gospel that transfigured his own
experience; and this was the gospel by which he
changed the face of England. 'John Wesley,' says
Mr. Birrell, 'paid more turnpikes than any man who
ever bestrode a beast. Eight thousand miles was
his annual record for many a long year, during each
of which he seldom preached less frequently than a

2o8 A Bunch of Everlastings

thousand times. No man ever lived nearer the
centre than John Wesley, neither Clive, nor Pitt,
nor Johnson, No single figure influenced so many
minds ; no single voice touched so many hearts. No
other man did such a life's work for England.' 'The
eighteenth century,' says President Wilson, 'cried
out for deliverance and light; and God prepared
John Wesley to show the world the might and the
blessing of His salvation.*

The pity of it is that John Wesley was thirty-five
when he entered the kingdom. The zest and vigour
of his early manhood had passed. He was late in
finding mercy. Thirty-five! Before they reached
that age, men like Murray McCheyne, Henry
Martyn, and David Brainerd had finished their life-
work and fallen into honoured graves. Why was
Wesley's great day so long in coming? He always
felt that the fault was not altogether his own. He
groped in the dark for many years and nobody
helped him — not even his ministers. William Law
was one of those ministers, and Wesley afterwards
wrote him on the subject. 'How will you answer to
our common Lord,' he asks, 'that you, sir, never led
me into the light ? Why did I scarcely ever hear you
name the name of Christ? Why did you never urge
me to faith in his blood f Is not Christ the First and
the Last? If you say that you thought I had faith
already, verily, you know nothing of me. I be-

John Wesley's Text 209

seech you, sir, by the mercies of God, to consider
whether the true reason of your never pressing this
salvation upon me was not this — that you never had
it yourself!'

Here is a letter for a man like Wesley to write
to a man like Law ! Many a minister has since read
that letter on his knees and has prayed that he may
never deserve to receive so terrible a reprimand.

WILLIAM KNIBB'S TEXT

Could anything be more perfectly beautiful, more
wonderfully fair ? Far as the eye can reach in every
direction, the eye is charmed and captivated by the
loveliness of the landscape. As we pace the deck
of the steamer as she rides at anchor in the bay, we
we turn from one prospect to another, uncertain as
to which of them all is the most delightful. In the
background the Blue Mountains stand out in sturdy
and rugged grandeur against the deep blue sky.
Even at this distance, we get hints of the glorious
forests that clothe those graceful slopes, and of the
thickly-wooded valleys that divide range from range.
What a playground for the countless troops of
monkeys ! What a paradise for the flocks of gor-
geously-coloured birds! Their gay plumage flashes
like flames of fire amidst this riot of gigantic for-
estry ! Nearer to the coast are the vast plains which,
built up in the course of ages by tiny coral insects,
now wave with their flourishing plantations and
abounding fruitage. For the island is as fertile as
it is fair, as rich as it is radiant ! Coffee and sugar

2IO

William Knibb's Text 211

and arrowroot ; orange and lemon and grape ; cinna-
mon, banana and pineapple; this oval beauty spot
in sunbathed tropical seas is a congenial garden for
them all ! Even the ocean that caresses the island
seems to feel that it must assume a beauty in keeping
with the loveliness of the land its waters lave. The
masses of brilliant coral immediately beneath the
surface impart to the shining waters a sheen of sap-
phire tints such as the sea but rarely boasts. 'I
have spent many years,' says a modern traveller,
*in voyaging from shore to shore; but I know of no
spot under heaven where the land is so luxuriously
beautiful and the ocean so extravagantly blue.* This,
then, is Jamaica !

Could anything be more abominable, more repul-
sively hideous? Life in this scene of enchantment
was the life, not of paradise, but of perdition. From
these fruitful plains and flowery valleys there rose
to heaven, not a song of praise, but a scream of
intolerable anguish. For Jamaica was the abode of
slavery. All day long the men must work, and all
day long the women must weep. But the men will
derive no satisfaction from their labour and the
women will find no comfort in their tears. They
are not their own, these people; far less are they
each other's. There is no such thing as marriage
among these ebony-skinned, thick-lipped, woolly-
haired creatures: and any unions that they form

212 A Bunch of Everlastings

among themselves are subject to the exigencies of
future sales. These little children in which the mis-
sionaries interest themselves, children with roguish
eyes and laughing faces, have been bred for the
market, and they will be sold as soon as their limbs
are set. Young men and maidens are pretty much
the same all the world over; you may see a good
deal of furtive lovemaking of an evening among the
plantations. But in each lover's heart there is a
dagger that Cupid never shot. For, as the stalwart
youth sees his dusky sweetheart growing more
shapely and more charming, he trembles lest her
beauty should catch the eye of her overseer and re-
sult in her being sold to a life that is worse than a
thousand deaths. The best that he can hope for is
that he and she may be permitted to live together
for a few years in some little hut among the bushes
to produce children for sale at the monthly market.
And if any slave dares to lift up his hand, or even
his voice, in rebellion or resentment, there are the
treadmill and the lash and the knife. The only thing
that stands between the black man and a cruel death
is his market value on the plantation or at the auction
block. Like the asp that Cleopatra concealed among
the lilies, this hideous evil cried to heaven from
among the beauteous fields and forests of Jamaica.
Did heaven hear such piercing cries? And, even if
heaven heard, how could heaven help? We shall
see ! But in order to see we must re-cross the At-
lantic 1

William Knibb's Text 213

III

And here, in a narrow street in Bristol, is a
printer's shop. The name over the door, compara-
tively freshly painted, is the name of J. G. Fuller. In
the printing-room behind the shop are a couple of
apprentice boys. They are brothers — Thomas and
William Knibb. Mr, Fuller is the son of the Rev.
Andrew Fuller of Kettering, one of the founders of
the modern missionary movement. He has only re-
cently come to Bristol, hence the newly-painted
name; and he brought the two Knibbs, Kettering
boys, with him, Mr, Fuller, with the impress of his
father's noble character strongly upon him, at once
associates himself with the Broadmead Church and
Sunday School, After awhile the two apprentices,
with the impress of their employer's character
strongly upon them, associate themselves with the
same church and take classes in the same Sunday
School, It is a fine thing when a man's piety is of
such an order that the youths in his workroom say
among themselves : 'His religion shall be my re-
ligion and his God my God!' In due time Mr,
Fuller became superintendent of the Sunday School,
and made it his practice to deliver a short address
before closing the school. It was one of those ad-
dresses that made history, I have heard of a man
aiming at a pigeon and killing a crow, but I know
of no instance in which that remarkable feat was
performed on such a splendid scale as in the con-

214 A Bunch of Everlastings

version of William Knibb. One Sunday afternoon,
before dismissing the children, Mr. Fuller spoke
for a few moments from the text : 'Wilt Thou not
from this time cry unto me. My Father, Thou art
the guide of my youth f Mr, Fuller aimed at the
scholars, but his words smote the conscience and
won the heart of a teacher, and that teacher one of
his own apprentices! 'It was a most earnest and
affectionate address,' wrote William Knibb, shortly
afterwards, 'and, under the divine blessing, it made
a deep and, I trust, a lasting impression on my
mind, and I hope that I was enabled to cast myself
at the foot of the Cross as a perishing sinner, plead-
ing for mercy for the sake of Jesus Christ and for
His sake alone!' A day or two later the youth
sought an interview with his employer. 'I felt
ashamed,' said Knibb, in the course of this con-
versation with Mr, Fuller, 'I felt ashamed, being a
teacher, that the address should be as suitable to me
as to the children. I felt conscious that I had wan-
dered as far from God as ever they had, and that
I needed a forgiving Father and a constant guide as
much as they did, I was overwhelmed. I felt such
a mixture of shame and grief, of hope and love, as
I had never felt before and cannot now describe, I
could not join in the closing hymn. I went to my
room above and yielded to my feelings. I wept
bitterly and prayed as I had never prayed before.
I turned the text itself into a prayer. "My Father,"
I cried to God, "wilt not Thou from this time be the

William Knibb's Text 215

guide of my youthf" The Lord heard my prayer
and enabled me to give Him my heart ; and now it is
my earnest desire to yield myself to His guidance
as long as I live!'

'I needed a forgiving Father!'

'I needed a constant Guide!'

'My Father, wilt not Thou be the guide of my
youthf

*The Lord heard my prayer!' the apprentice says
exultingly, as he looks gratefully into his employer's
face. And when the Lord heard that prayer, He
heard the bitter cry of the island whose fair shores
we just now visited; for the salvation of William
Knibb was the deliverance of the slaves across the
seas.

And yet it was not William Knibb, but Thomas,
who was most concerned about the lands that lay
in darkness. In setting up some copy that had come
into the printing-room, the elder of the two ap-
prentices had been startled by the crying needs of
the heathen world. He longed to be a missionary.
When, one day, somebody referred to the successes
being achieved by native preachers, Thomas burst
into tears. His younger brother asked him why he
wept. T am greatly afraid,' Thomas replied, 'that,
since the native preachers are so successful, no more
white missionaries will be needed; and I shall have
no part in the evangelisation of the world!' His

2i6 A Bunch of Everlasting

fears, however, were groundless. He became a
missionary; was designated for Jamaica; arrived
there in January, 1823; and died of malaria just
three months later. It was a dark day for the
younger brother when the heavy tidings reached
England. But he met the crisis, his biographer tells
us, with characteristic firmness and promptitude.
When the news of his brother's death was com-
municated to him by Mr. Fuller, his feelings were
strongly excited and he wept bitterly. But, as soon
as the first gush of emotion had subsided, he rose
from the table and said: 'Then, if the society will
accept me, I'll go and take his place !'

A forgiving Father!

A constant Guide!

'My Father, wilt not Thou he the guide of my
youth?'

In the cry of an enslaved people, fortified and
intensified by a cry from his brother's grave, Wil-
liam Knibb recognised the leading of the Kindly
Light. The *Guide of his Youth' was pointing the
way, and he bravely followed the gleam.

*My Father,' he cried, on that never-to-be-for-
gotten Sunday afternoon, 'will not Thou he the guide
of my youth?' And not once, through all the event-
ful years that followed, did that clear guidance fail
him ! He went out to Jamaica to preach the gospel ;
but he soon came to feel — as Livingstone felt on the

William Knibb's Text 217

other side of the Atlantic a few years afterwards —
that the work of evangelisation and the work of
emancipation are inseparable. Christianity could
make no terms with slaver)^ Little by little he was
led, by the Invisible Guide whose beckoning hand he
had pledged himself to follow, into a work that he
had never for a moment anticipated. The sights that
he witnessed sickened him; they became the cease-
less torture of his soul. He felt that no sacrifice
would be too great if only he could strike the
shackles from the limbs of the slaves. And he made
terrific sacrifices! The guidance that he had so
passionately sought rarely led him in green pastures
or beside still waters. It led him, rather, into ter-
rible privations, relentless persecution and desolating
bereavements. In that fever-laden climate he, one
by one, buried his children almost as soon as they
were born. One, the boy whom he named after him-
self, was spared to see his twelfth birthday, but the
others were lowered as babes into his brother's grave.
From one of these heart-rending burials after an-
other he turned sadly away, the father-soul within
him longing for life in a land in which his little ones
could live. But the reformer-soul within him de-
termined never to leave the island till all the slaves
were free. On more than one occasion he was
charged with rebellion, handcuffed, and dragged
about the island, his persecutors heaping upon him
every form of indignity that would be calculated to
degrade him in the eyes of the slaves. The churches

2i8 A Bunch of Everlastings

that he had erected at such cost, and in which he
had taken such pride, were burned down by the
slave-owners before his very eyes. He was spared
no humiHation that could tend to his embarrassment
and discomfiture. He visited England in order that
he might stir his fellow-countrymen to righteous in-
dignation. The whole country was moved by the
passion and the pathos of those tremendous appeals.
*If I fail in arousing the sympathy of England,' he
cried, *I will go back to Jamaica and call upon Him
who hath made of one blood all nations upon the
earth. And if I die without beholding the emanci-
pation of my brethren and sisters in Christ, then,
if prayer is permitted in Heaven, I will fall at the
feet of the Eternal, crying: "Lord, open the eyes
of Christians in England to see the evil of slavery
and to banish it from the earth !" ' But the people
heard; and the Parliament heard; and the prayer
of his passionate heart was granted him.

'Wilt not Thou be the Guide of my youth?' he
cried.

And the Guide led to the goal! As a result of
Mr. Knibb's tireless activities, the slaves were freed !
Their emancipation came into force at midnight on
July 31, 1838. And what is this? As the historic
hour draws near, the exultant slaves gather in their
thousands at the church. During the evening,
hymns are sung, the excited blacks joining in the

William Knibb's Text 219

praise with a zest that even they have never shown
before. As the night deepens the emotion becomes
more intense. As the hand of the clock approaches
the midnight hour, Mr. Knibb, standing in the pul-
pit, shouts, 'The Monster is dying!' As the clock
begins to strike he cries again: 'The Monster is
dying!' And when the hour has fully struck he
proclaims : 'The Monster is dead !' The scene is
indescribable. 'Never/ wrote Knibb, 'was heard
such a sound. The winds of freedom appeared to
have been let loose. The very building shook at
the strange, yet sacred, joy. Oh, had my boy, my
lovely, freedom-loving boy, been there! Alas, he
is sleeping undisturbed in the churchyard, nor can
the sweet sounds he so much loved awake him from
his rest !' In passionate longing to have at least one
of his children associated with that glad historic
event, Mr. Knibb slips across to his home, draws
his twelve-months' old baby from his cot, and, mid-
night though it is, returns with the child in his arms,
and holds him proudly up before the shouting,
clapping, singing multitude. In the early grey of the
morning, a most remarkable burial takes place in the
churchyard. One might almost say, in the words
of Mrs. Alexander:

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth.

Many of the slaves are skilled cabinet-makers. They
have prepared a most exquisitely-carved and polished

220 A Bunch of Everlastings

coffin, and have dug a deep, deep grave. Into the
coffin they throw the slave-chain, a slave-whip, a
slave-hat, and an iron collar — all the insignia of
their degradation. The great crowd of grateful
freemen gathers round the open grave and a solemn
funeral service is held. At the proper moment, the
coffin is lowered into the yawning grave, the mul-
titude singing exultingly :

'Now, Slavery, we lay thy vile form in the dust,
And, buried for ever, there let it remain :

And rotted, and covered with infamy's rust,
Be every man-whip and fetter and chain.'

The land rings with doxologies. The beauteous
island is delivered from its hideous curse! The
Guide has led to the goal! The chains are shat-
tered ! The slaves are free !

VII

Among the people whom he loved so well, the
people whom he had emancipated and evangelised,
Knibb died a few years later. He was only forty-
two when he passed away. T am not afraid to die,'
he said ; 'the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all
sin, both of omission and commission ; that blood is
my only trust!' And, just as the gentle spirit was
about to take its flight, he reached out his hand to
Mrs. Knibb and murmured : 'Mary, it is all right :
all is well !'

'My Father/ he cried, at the dawn of his career,

William Knibb's Text 221

'My Father^ will not Thou be the Guide of my
youth f

'It is all right: all is well!' he murmured in the
last moments of his life.

The Guide had led to the goal ! Under sure, safe,
skilful pilotage, the ship had made a good voyage
and had come straight to port ! William Knibb had
cast his anchor within the veil ! *It is all right : all
is well !' Such is the final gladness of all who follow
faithfully the Kindly Light !

XXI
JOHN NEWTON'S TEXT

John Newton was plagued with a terribly treach-
erous memory. In his youth it had betrayed and
nearly ruined him ; how could he ever trust it again ?
'You must know,' said Greatheart to Christiana's
boys, 'you must know that Forgetful Green is the
most dangerous place in all these parts.' John New-
ton understood, better than any man who ever lived,
exactly what Greatheart meant. Poor John Newton
nearly lost his soul on Forgetful Green. His auto-
biography is filled with the sad, sad story of his for-
gettings. 'I forgot,' he says again and again and
again, 'I forgot . . . ! I soon forgot . . . ! This,
too, I totally forgot!' The words occur repeatedly.
And so it came to pass that when, after many wild
and dissolute years, he left the sea and entered the
Christian ministry, he printed a certain text in bold
letters, and fastened it right across the wall over
his study mantelpiece :

THOU SHALT REMEMBER THAT THOU WAST

A BONDMAN IN THE LAND OF EGYPT, AND

THE LORD THY GOD REDEEMED THEE.

222

John Newton's Text 223

A photograph of that mantelpiece Hes before me
as I write. There, clearly enough, hangs John
Newton's text! In sight of it he prepared every
sermon. In this respect John Newton resembled
Thomas Goodwin. 'When,' says that sturdy Puri-
tan, in a letter to his son, 'when I was threatening
to become cold in my ministry, and when I felt
Sabbath morning coming and my heart not filled
with amazement at the grace of God, or when I was
making ready to dispense the Lord's Supper, do you
know what I used to do? I used to take a turn up
and down among the sins of my past life, and I al-
ways came down again with a broken and contrite
heart, ready to preach, as it was preached in the
beginning, the forgiveness of sins.' T do not think,'
he says again, T ever went up the pulpit stair that
I did not stop for a moment at the foot of it and
take a turn up and down among the sins of my past
years. I do not think that I ever planned a sermon
that I did not take a turn round my study-table and
look back at the sins of my youth and of all my life
down to the present ; and many a Sabbath morning,
when my soul had been cold and dry for the lack of
prayer during the week, a turn up and down in my
past life before I went into the pulpit always broke
my hard heart and made me close with the gospel
for my own soul before I began to preach.' Like
this great predecessor of his, Newton felt that, in his
pulpit preparation, he must keep his black, black past
ever vividly before his eyes.

224 A Bunch of Everlastings

7 forgot . . .! I soon forgot . . .! This, too,

I totally forgot!*

'Thou shalt remember, remember, remember!'
'Thou shalt remember that thou wast a bondman

in the land of Egypt, and that the Lord thy God

redeemed thee!'

'A bondman!'

'Thou shalt remember that thou wast a bond-
man!'

The words were literally true! For some time
Newton was a slavetrader ; but, worse still, for some
time he was a slave ! Newton's conversion deserves
to be treasured among the priceless archives of the
Christian church because of the amazing trans-
formation it effected. It seems incredible that an
Englishman could fall as low as he did. As Pro-
fessor Goldwin Smith says, he was a brand plucked
from the very heart of the burning! Losing his
mother — the one clear guiding-star of his early hfe
— when he was seven, he went to sea when he was
eleven. 'I went to Africa,' he tells us, 'that I might
be free to sin to my heart's content.' During the
next few years his soul was seared by the most
revolting and barbarous of all human experiences.
He endured the extreme barbarities of a life before
the mast; he fell into the pitiless clutches of the
pressgang; as a deserter from the navy he was
flogged until the blood streamed down his back;

John Newton's Text 225

and he became involved in the unspeakable atrocities
of the African slave trade. And then, going from
bad to worse, he actually became a slave himself!
The slave of a slave! He was sold to a negress
who, glorying in her power over him, made him
depend for his food on the crusts that she tossed
under her table! He could sound no lower depth
of abject degradation. In the after-years, he could
never recall this phase of his experience without a
shudder. As he says in the epitaph that he com-
posed for himself, he was 'the slave of slaves.'

'A bondman!'

'A slave of slaves! A bondman of bondmen!'

'Thou shall remember that thou wast a bond-
man!'

How could he ever forget ?

Ill

How, I say, could he ever forget? And yet he
had forgotten other things scarcely less notable.

As a boy, he was thrown from a horse and nearly
killed. Looking death in the face in this abrupt and
untimely way, a deep impression was made. 'But,'
he says, 7 soon forgot!'

Some years later, he made an appointment with
some companions to visit a man-of-war. They were
to meet at the waterside at a certain time and row
out to the battleship. But the unexpected happened.
Newton was detained; his companions left without

2 26 A Bunch of Everlastings

him; the boat was upset and they were drowned.
'I went to the funeral,' Newton says, 'and was ex-
ceedingly affected. But this, also, I soon forgot!'

Then came a remarkable dream. Really, he was
lying in his hammock in the forecastle of a ship
homeward bound from Italy. But, in his fancy, he
was back at Venice. It was midnight; the ship, he
thought, was riding at anchor ; and it was his watch
on deck. As, beneath a clear Italian sky, he paced
to and fro across the silent vessel, a stranger sud-
denly approached him. This mysterious visitant
gave him a beautiful ring. 'As long as you keep it,'
he said, 'you will be happy and successful; but, if
you lose it, you will know nothing but trouble and
misery.' The stranger vanished. Shortly after, a
second stranger appeared on deck. The newcomer
pointed to the ring. 'Throw it away!' he cried,
'throw it away!' Newton was horrified at the
proposal; but he listened to the arguments of the
stranger and at length consented. Going to the side
of the ship, he flung the ring into the sea. Instantly
the land seemed ablaze with a range of volcanoes
in fierce eruption, and he understood that all those
terribk flames had been lit for his destruction. The
second stranger vanished; and, shortly after, the
first returned. Newton fell at his feet and con-
fessed everything. The stranger entered the water
and regained the ring. 'Give it me 1' Newton cried,
in passionate entreaty, 'give it me!' 'No,' replied
the stranger, 'you have shown that you are unable

John Newton's Text 227

to keep it ! I will preserve it for you, and, whenever
you need it, will produce it on your behalf.' 'This
dream,' says Newton, 'made a very great impression ;
but the impression soon wore oflf, and, in a little
time, / totally forgot it!'

7 forgot!'

'This, too, I soon forgot!'

'In a little time, I totally forgot it!'

So treacherous a thing was Newton's memory!
Is it any wonder that he suspected it, distrusted it,
feared it? Is it any wonder that, right across his
study wall, he wrote that text?

'Thou shall remember!'

'Thou shall remember that thou wast a bond-
man!'

'Thou shall remember that thou wast a bond-
man, and that the Lord thy God redeemed thee!'

'Thou shall remember that thou wast a bond-
man!'

'Thou shall remember that the Lord thy God
redeemed thee!'

But how? Was the work of grace in John New-
ton's soul a sudden or a gradual one? It is diffi-
cult to say. It is always difficult to say. The birth
of the body is a very sudden and yet a very gradual
affair : so also is the birth of the soul. To say that
John Newton was suddenly converted would be to

228 A Bunch of Everlastings

ignore those gentle and gracious influences by which
two good women — his mother and his sweetheart — ■
led him steadily heavenwards. *I was born,' New-
ton himself tells us, * in a home of godliness, and
dedicated to God in my infancy, I was my mother's
only child, and almost her whole employment was
the care of my education.' Every day of her life
she prayed with him as well as for him, and every
day she sought to store his mind with those majestic
and gracious words that, once memorised, can never
be altogether shaken from the mind. It was the
grief of her deathbed that she was leaving her boy,
a little fellow of seven, at the mercy of a rough
world; but she had sown the seed faithfully, and
she hoped for a golden harvest.

Some years later, John Newton fell in love with
Mary Catlett. She was only thirteen — the age of
Shakespeare's Juliet. But his passion was no pass-
ing fancy. *His affection for her,' says Professor
Goldwin Smith, 'was as constant as it was romantic ;
his father frowned on the engagement, and he be-
came estranged from home; but through all his
wanderings and sufferings he never ceased to think
of her; and after seven years she became his wife.'
The Bishop of Durham, in a centennial sermon, de-
clares that Newton's pure and passionate devotion
to this simple and sensible young girl was 'the one
merciful anchor that saved him from final self-
abandonment.' Say that Newton's conversion was
sudden, therefore, and you do a grave injustice to

John Newton's Text 229

the memory of two women whose fragrant influence
should never be forgotten.

And yet it was sudden; so sudden that Newton
could tell the exact date and name the exact place!
It took place on the tenth of March, 1748, on board
a ship that was threatening to founder in the grip
of a storm. 'That tenth of March/ says Newton,
'is a day much to be remembered by me; and I have
never suffered it to pass unnoticed since the year
1748. For on that day — March 10, 1748 — the Lord
came from on high and delivered me out of deep
zvaters.' The storm was terrific : when the ship went
plunging down into the trough of the seas few on
board expected her to come up again. The hold
was rapidly filling with water. As Newton hurried
to his place at the pumps he said to the captain, *If
this will not do, the Lord have mercy upon us!*
His own words startled him.

'Mercy!' he said to himself, in astonishment,
'mercy! mercy! What mercy can there be for me?
This was the first desire I had breathed for mercy
for many years ! About six in the evening the hold
was free from water, and then came a gleam of hope.
I thought I saw the hand of God displayed in our
favour. I began to pray. I could not utter the
prayer of faith. I could not draw near to a recon-
ciled God and call Him Father. My prayer for
mercy was like the cry of the ravens, which yet the
Lord Jesus does not disdain to hear.'

*In the gospel,' says Newton, in concluding the

230 A Bunch of Everlastings

story of his conversion, 'in the gospel I saw at least
a peradventure of hope; but on every other side I
was surrounded with black, unfathomable despair.'
On that 'peradventure of hope' Newton staked
everything. On the tenth of March, 1748, he
sought mercy — and found it ! He was then twenty-
three.

Years afterwards, when he entered the Christian
ministry, John Newton began making history. He
made it well. His hand is on the nation still. He
changed the face of England. He began with the
church. In his 'History of the Church of England,'
Wakeman gives us a sordid and terrible picture of
the church as Newton found it. The church was in
the grip of the political bishop, the fox-hunting
parson, and an utterly worldly and materialistic
laity. Spiritual leadership was unknown. John
Newton and a few kindred spirits, 'the first genera-
tion of the clergy called "evangelical," ' became — to
use Sir James Stephen's famous phrase — 'the second
founders of the Church of England.' There is
scarcely a land beneath the sun that has been un-
affected by Newton's influence. As one of the foun-
ders of the Church Missionary Society, he laid his
hand upon all our continents and islands. Through
the personalities of his converts, too, he wielded a
power that is impossible to compute. Take two,
by way of illustration. Newton was the means of

John Newton's Text 231

the conversion of Claudius Buchanan and Thomas
Scott. In due time Buchanan carried the gospel
to the East Indies, and wrote a book which led
Adoniram Judson to undertake his historic mission
to Burmah. Scott became one of the most powerful
writers of his time, and, indeed, of all time. Has
not Cardinal Newman confessed that it was Scott's
treatment of the doctrine of the Trinity that pre-
served his faith, in one of the crises of his soul,
from total shipwreck? And what ought to be said
of Newton's influence on men like Wilberforce and
Cowper, Thornton and Venn? One of our greatest
literary critics has affirmed that the friendship of
Newton saved the intellect of Cowper. *If, said
Prebendary H. E. Fox, not long ago, *if Cowper
had never met Newton, the beautiful hymns in the
Olney collection, and that noble poem, "The Task"
— nearest to Milton in English verse — would never
have been written.' Moreover, there are Newton's
own hymns. Wherever, to this day, congregations
join in singing 'How Sweet the Name of Jesus
Sounds,' or 'Glorious Things of Thee are Spoken,'
or 'One There is Above All Others' or 'Amazing
Grace, how Sweet the Sound' there John Newton
is still at his old task, still making history !

And, all the time, the text hung over the fireplace :
'Thou shalt remember!'

232 A Bunch of Everlastings

'Thou shalt remember that thou wast a bond-
man!'

'Thou shalt remember that the Lord thy God
redeemed thee!'

From that time forth Newton's treacherous mem-
ory troubled him no more. He never again forgot.
He never could. He said that when, from the hold
of the sinking ship, he cried for mercy, it seemed to
him that the Saviour looked into his very soul.

Sure, never till my latest breath,

Can I forget that look;
It seemed to charge me with His death,

Though not a word He spoke.

'I forgot . . .! I soon forgot . . .! This, too, I
totally forgot!'

'Thou shalt remember that the Lord thy God re-
deemed thee!'

'Never till my latest breath can I forget that look!'

The Rev. Richard Cecil, M.A., who afterwards
became his biographer, noticing that Newton was
beginning to show signs of age, urged him one day
to stop preaching and take life easily. 'What!' he
replied, 'shall the old African blasphemer stop while
he can speak at all?' He could not forget. And
he was determined that nobody else should! In
order that future generations might know that he
was a bondman and had been redeemed, he wrote
his own epitaph and expressly directed that this —
this and no other — should be erected for him:

John Newton's Text 233

JOHN NEWTON,

Clerk,

Once an Infidel and Libertine,

A Servant of Slaves in Africa,

was

by the Mercy of our Lord and Saviour

Jesus Christ,

Preserved, Restored, Pardoned,

And Appointed to Preach the Faith he

had so long laboured to destroy.

No; that treacherous memory of his never be-
trayed him again! When he was an old, old man,
very near the close of his pilgrimage, William Jay,
of Bath, one day met him in the street. Newton
complained that his powers were failing fast. *My
memory,' he said, 'is nearly gone; but I remember
two things, that I am a great sinner and that Christ
is a great Saviour !'

'Thou shalt remember that thou wast a bond-
man in the land of Egypt, and that the Lord thy
God redeemed thee!' — that was John Newton's
text.

'My memory is nearly gone; but I remember two
things, that I am a great sinner and that Christ is
a great Saviour!' — that was John Newton's tes-
timony.

234 A Bunch of Everlastings

VII

7 forgot . . .! I soon forgot. . .! This, too, I
totally forgot!'

'Thou shall remember, remember, remember !'
Newton liked to think that the memory that had
once so basely betrayed him — the memory that, in
later years, he had so sternly and perfectly disci-
plined— would serve him still more delightfully in
the life beyond. Cowper died a few years before
his friend; and Newton liked to picture to himself
their reunion in heaven. He wrote a poem in which
he represented himself as grasping Cowper's hand
and rapturously addressing him :

Oh ! let thy memory wake ! I told thee so ;
I told thee thus would end thy heaviest woe;
I told thee that thy God would bring thee here,
And God's own hand would wipe away thy tear,
While I should claim a mission by thy side;
I told thee so — for our Emmanuel died.

*0h! let thy memory wake!'

7 forgot . . .! I soon forgot. . .! This, too, I
totally forgot!'

'Thou shall remember that the Lord thy God re-
deemed thee!'

Newton felt certain that the joyous recollection
of that infinite redemption would be the loftiest bliss
of the life that is to be.

XXII
ANDREW FULLER'S TEXT

The Magic Music! What is the Magic Music?
Ever since the world began, poets have let their
truant fancies play about it, but none of them have
told us what it is. They have sung to us of the
bells that peal under the sea, of the songs that are
heard in the storm, and of sirens that sing on the
shore. They have told us of cities that mysteriously
rose to the strains of the lyre of Orpheus; and they
have told us of cities rendered desolate by the fatal
lure of the piper's lute; but none of them have
described those resistless strains, those bewitching
harmonies, that magic and marvellous music ! What
is it ? We must try to find out !

Right away down among the swamps of the Red
River district, three slaves sit huddled together at
the close of a cruel and exhausting day. Two of
them are women: the third is Uncle Tom. Seeing
that they are too tired to grind their corn, Tom has
ground it for them ; and, touched by such uncommon
sympathy, they have baked his cake for him. Tom
sits down by the light of the fire and draws out his
Bible, for he has need of comfort.

235

236 A Bunch of Everlastings

'What's that?' says one of the women.

*A Bible !' Tom answers.

'Laws a me! And what's that? Read a piece,
anyways!' exclaimed the woman, curiously, seeing
Tom poring so attentively over it.

'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-
laden, and I will give you rest!'

'Them's good enough words!' exclaimed the as-
tonished woman. *Who says 'em?'

And, beginning with those 'good words,' Tom
tells her the story of Jesus. But let us change the
scene !

We are at the Isle of Wight. And here, in the
lovely little church at Newport, is the memorial
that Queen Victoria erected to the memory of the
Princess Elizabeth. It is by Marochetti, and rep-
resents, as Mr. William Canton says, one of the
most touching scenes that a sculptor has ever put into
marble. It is the figure of a fair young girl in the
quaintly pretty dress of the, Stuart days. Her eyes
are closed; her lips are parted with the last faint
sigh. One arm is laid upon her waist; the other
has fallen by her side, with the little hand half open
— it will never more hold anything. Her left cheek
is resting upon an open Bible, and her long ringlets
are scattered across the page, but you can read the
verse :

'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-
laden, and I will give you rest!'

Let us change the scene again ! We are at Hippo,

Andrew Puller's Text 237

in Northern Africa. It is the fifth century. Augus-
tine bends over his desk. Let us glance over his
shoulder! What is it that he is writing? 'I have
read in Plato and in Cicero,' he says, 'many sayings
that are very wise and very beautiful, but I never
read in either of them such words as these : "Come
unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden,
and I will give you rest." '

'Those are good words!' says the slave woman,
as she listens in astonishment to the reading of
Uncle Tom.

'Those are good words!' says Queen Victoria,
as she selects them for inclusion in the sculptor's
masterpiece.

'Those are good words!' says Augustine, as he
contrasts them with the wealthiest treasures of
heathen mines.

Here, then, are words that could pour new hope
into the empty heart of a despairing slave; words
that could minister consolation and delight to the
soul of the world's mightiest sovereign; words that
could ravish the mind of an old-world scholar and
saint. Here, if anywhere, we have the Magic Music !

'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-
laden, and I will give you rest!'

Ill

A Slave's text!
A Queen's text!
A Bishop's text!

238 A Bunch of Everlastings

And Andrew Fuller's Text!

Andrew Fuller made history in three several ways.
To begin at the beginning, he made history by means
of his exquisitely beautiful life at home. One of
his sons — Andrew G. Fuller, of Wolverhampton —
wrote in his old age a biography of his father.
There were several such works already in existence.
But, in reading them, the second Andrew Fuller felt
that none of them had touched the real secret of his
father's influence and power. He, therefore, took
his pen, when nearly eighty years of age, and wrote
his book as a filial tribute to the loveliness, the
unselfishness and the nobleness of his father's life
in the home. Another of Andrew Fuller's sons —
Mr. J. G. Fuller — set up, we have seen, as a printer
at Bristol. He engaged as his apprentice a young
fellow named William Knibb. Moved by his
father's spirit, the master was soon the means of
his assistant's conversion. Having been led to the
Saviour by Mr. Fuller, William Knibb became the
great evangelist of the West Indies and the historic
deliverer of the slaves. When the glad shout of the
emancipated blacks echoed through the world, no-
body thought of Andrew Fuller; yet to Andrew
Fuller's influence that joyous event was directly
traceable.

Andrew Fuller made history by means of one
of the most scrupulously conscientious ministries
that we have on record. One illustration must
suffice. As a young man of six and twenty, he was

Andrew Puller's Text 239

minister of the little church at Soham, The mem-
bership of the church was less than forty ; his salary
was fifteen pounds a year; and he was far from
being happy. The congregation was sharply divided
on acute doctrinal questions; several of the leading
members treated him with coldness and some with
bitterness; and every sermon that he preached was
subjected to the most pitiless criticism. At this
juncture he was called to the important charge at
Kettering. The invitation assured him a much
larger congregation, a much larger salary, and
absolute unanimity. Yet for two years he hesitated
as to the course that he ought to pursue. It seemed
to him that the souls of the people at Soham had
been committed to his care; and how could he give
account of them in the Day of Judgement if he
lightly forsook them? The very troubles of the
church made it more difficult for his conscience to
consent to its abandonment. As Dr. Ryland has
remarked, 'many men would risk the fate of an em-
pire with fewer searchings of heart than it cost
Andrew Fuller to determine whether he should
leave a little dissenting church of less than forty
members.' But that was the man! And in that
spirit he lived and laboured to the end of his days.

But, most memorably of all, Andrew Fuller made
history as one of our great missionary pioneers.
When, it has been finely said, when it pleased God
to awaken from her slumbers a drowsy and lethargic
church, there rang out, from the belfry of the ages.

240 A Bunch of Everlastings

a clamorous and insistent alarm; and, in that
arousing hour, the hand upon the bell-rope was the
hand of William Carey. Yes, Carey's was the hand
that grasped the rope; but Fuller stood beside him
when he did it. They were partners in the greatest
of all human enterprises. When Carey preached
his famous sermon — the sermon that awoke the
world — Fuller stood beside the pulpit. And Carey
was only able to go to India because Fuller under-
took to arouse interest and organise the Church's
resources at home. *You go down into the mine,'
said Fuller to Carey, 'and we will hold the ropes!*
How well he fulfilled his promise, let his biogra-
phers tell. By holding those ropes, Andrew Fuller
made history.

Andrew Fuller was a farmer's son, and, to the end
of his days, he dearly loved the fields. As a boy,
he revelled in the life of the village and the country-
side. We get glimpses of him searching for birds*
nests in the woods, killing snakes in the lane, and
sitting with other boys beside the great fire in the
village smithy. Yet, even in those early days, he
was conscious of a hunger in his heart that none
of these pursuits could satisfy. He attended his
mother's church, but the minister did not help him.
Mr. Eve was a representative of that grim and stern
old theology that set the poor boy trembling in every
limb but offered him no refuge from the terrors it

Andrew Puller's Text 241

presented. The more he heard, the more miserable
he became. In his distress, he collected such books
as he could find. He read Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's
Progress' and 'Grace Abounding,' and Erskine's
'Gospel Sonnets.' 'I read,' he says, ' and as I read
I wept. Indeed, I was almost overcome with weep-
ing, so interesting did the doctrine of eternal salva-
tion appear to me.' But how to make that great
salvation his? There lay the problem. He discov-
ered that one of his father's labourers was a very
religious man. He followed this man into the fields
and stables and barns, hoping that he would drop
some word that would dispel the horror of his mind;
but no emancipating word was spoken. The quest
seemed hopeless. At the age of fifteen he almost
abandoned the search. 'I thought,' he says, 'of
giving up in despair ; why not forget it and take my
fill of sin?' But the very idea sent a shudder
through all his frame. His heart revolted. 'What !'
he said to himself, 'can I give up Christ and hope
and heaven?'

Then, one never-to-be-forgotten day, his ears
were ravished by the Magic Music! He heard the
text:

'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-
laden, and I will give you rest!'

He looked away from self, his son tells us; and
fixed his eyes upon a crucified Saviour; his guilt and
fears began to dissolve like the snows of winter
under the silent influence of spring-time warmth.

242 A Bunch of Everlastings

He was in such dire extremity that, whether it ac-
corded with the teachings of Mr. Eve or not, he
determined to venture everything upon Christ!

'Come unto me!' said the Matchless Music.

'I must!' his soul made answer. 'I must and I
will! Yes, I will, I will! I trust my soul — my lost
and sinful soul — in His hands! I come, I come!
And if I perish, I perish!' The words are copied
from his own account of that memorable experience.

'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-
laden, and I will give you rest!'

He came; and, in coming, he found the rest that
was promised, the rest he had so diligently sought.
*I should have found it sooner,' he says, 'if I had
not entertained the notion of my having no warrant
to come to Christ without some previous qualifica-
tion. I mention this,' he adds, 'because it may be
the case with others who may be kept in darkness
and despondency by such views much longer than
I was.'

During the years that followed, Andrew Fuller
had his full share of trouble. .Whilst he lay ill in
one room, his daughter, a little girl of six, died in
the room adjoining.

'I heard a whispering,' he says, *and then all were
silent. All were silent! But all is well. I feel
reconciled to God. I called my family around my
bed. I sat up and prayed with them as well as I

Andrew Fuller's Text 243

could. I bowed my head and worshipped a taking
as well as a giving God !'

Some time afterwards, Mrs. Fuller lost her
reason. In her frenzy she fancied that he was not
her husband, but an impostor, who had entered the
house and taken all that belonged to her. She re-
garded him as her bitterest enemy and made every
effort to escape. She had to be watched night and
day. Just before her death, however, a sudden
calm stole over her. 'I was weeping,' Mr. Fuller
says, 'and the sight of my tears seemed to awaken
her recollection. Fixing her eyes upon me, she
exclaimed, "Why, are you indeed my husband?"
"Indeed, my dear, I am!" She then drew near and
kissed me several times. My heart dissolved with a
mixture of grief and joy. Her senses were restored,
and she talked as rationally as ever.' A fortnight
later she laid a little child in the father's arms and
then passed quietly away.

Then again, her eldest boy proved wayward and
gave him serious trouble. He ran away to sea. It
was reported that, as a result of a misadventure,
he had received three hundred lashes, and had died
under the punishment. *0h,' cried the father, when
he heard of it, 'this is heart trouble! My boy, my
boy! He cried and I heard him not! O Absalom!
my son ! my son ! Would God I had died for thee,
my son, my son!'

It turned out, however, that the rumour was false.
Robert was still alive, and the letters that his father

244 ^ Bunch of Everlastings

wrote him are among the tenderest and most per-
suasive in our Hterature. There is every reason to
believe that their pleadings had the effect that the
father most desired. *I was exceedingly intimate
with Robert/ wrote a shipmate long afterwards.
*We freely opened our minds to each other. He
was a very pleasing youth and became a true Chris-
tian man.' The news of his death, however, was a
terrible blow to Mr. Fuller. On the Sunday fol-
lowing its reception, he broke down completely in
the pulpit, and the whole congregation wept with
him.

But, through all the clash of feeling and the
tumult of emotion, the bells were ringing under the
sea. The Magic Music never ceased.

'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-
laden, and I will gwe you rest!'

That rest was never broken. When he lay dying
at the last, he called Dr. Ryland to receive his final
testimony. *I have no other hope of salvation,' he
said, 'than through the atonement of my Lord and
Saviour. With this hope T can go into eternity with
composure.'

'I will give you rest!'

'I go into eternity zvith composure!'

Rest! Composure! So steadfastly was the
promise kept to the very, very last!

As a boy, I came under the influence of a fine

Andrew Fuller's Text 245

old clergyman — Canon Hoare, the rector of Holy
Trinity, Tunbridge Wells — a man very highly es-
teemed in the South of England. I can see him
now, tall, stately and grey, my beau ideal of all that
a minister should be. In his study there hung a
very beautiful and telling picture. It represented
a shipwreck from which one life was being saved.
In confidential moments, Canon Hoare would tell
the story of the picture. It seems that, years ago,
a very wealthy man called to arrange with him
about his burial-place. The Canon walked round
the churchyard with him, and, after inspecting sev-
eral possible positions, the gentleman at last selected
the spot in which he wished his bones to rest. This
business completed, they paused for a second or
two, listening to the birds, and then the Canon
turned to his companion and said :

*Well, now; you have chosen a resting-place for
your body. Have you yet found a resting-place
for your soul?'

There was silence for a moment, and then, turn-
ing full upon the Canon, the gentleman exclaimed :

'You are the first man who ever asked me that
question !'

It set him thinking. He sought and found the
resting-place, the only resting-place, Andrew Fuller's
resting-place; and he sent the Canon the picture as
a token of his gratitude. He felt that his was the
life that had been saved from shipwreck.

'The Matchless Music!'

246 A Bunch of Everlastings

'A Resting-place for the Soul!'

'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heairy-
laden, and I will give you rest!'

He who has heard that music, and found that
resting-place, will smile at all the buffetings of time
and pass into eternity with composure.

XXIII
STEPHEN GRELLET'S TEXT

A RESTLESS and adventurous Quaker was Stephen
Grellet. He yearned to live to the age of Methuselah,
and, had his wish been granted, he would have made
good use of every moment of his time. The marvel
is, however, that he lived to be eighty-two. He was
nearly hanged to a lamp-post by infuriated revolu-
tionists in Paris; he was twice faced with death by
drowning — once in a swollen mill-race and once at
a flooded ford ; he twice fell into the hands of pirates
from whose cutlasses he had good reason to expect
a hasty despatch; and, in the course of his tireless
travels amidst populations that were being ravaged
by plagues and pestilences, he was laid low again
and again. More than once he gave specific in-
structions concerning the burial of his body. But
each time he rose from his fevered couch and con-
tinued his tireless pilgrimage. He passed from
country to country with as little concern as some men
feel in passing from village to village. He learned
language after language in order that he might
preach the Word in every hole and corner of the

247

248 A Bunch of Everlastings

earth. He stood before Emperors and Kings, speak-
ing to crowned heads with the naturalness and ease
with which he addressed the children at home. He
found his way into prisons and workhouses; into
slave camps and thieves' kitchens ; he lost no oppor-
tunity of preaching to all kinds and conditions of
men the words of everlasting life. His is one of
the most remarkable evangelistic careers on record.

He yearned to live as long as Methuselah; but
he discovered that he could live longer still. That
discovery is, in a word, the explanation of his life.
Let him tell his own story. 'One evening,' he says,
*I was walking in the fields alone, my mind being
under no kind of religious concern, nor in the least
excited by anything I had heard or thought of.'
Suddenly, explain it how you may, the solitudes of
that vast American forest declined any longer to
be dumb. They became vocal with wondrous speech.
The wayward winds and the rustling leaves were all
whispering and caroling and shouting and echoing
the same wonderful word. T was arrested,' he says,
*by what seemed to be an awful voice proclaiming
the word, "Eternity! Eternity! Eternity!" It
reached my very soul — my whole man shook — it
brought me, like Saul, to the ground. The great
depravity and sinfulness of my heart were set open
before me. . . . After this, I spent most of my time

Stephen Grellet's Text 249

in retirement. I began to read the Bible. O, what
sweetness did I then feel! It was indeed a memo-
rable day. I was like one introduced into a new
world; the creation, and all things around me, bore
a different aspect — my heart glowed with love to all.
The awfulness of that visitation can never cease to
be remembered with peculiar interest and gratitude,
as long as I have the use of my mental faculties. I
have been as one plucked from a burning house —
rescued from the brink of a horrible pit! . . . How
can I set forth the fullness of heavenly joy that filled
me? I saw that there was One that was able to
save me. I saw Him to be the Lamb of God that
taketh away the sins of the world. I felt faith in
His atoning blood. Floods of tears of joy and
gratitude gave vent to the fullness of my heart!*
And all through one word — 'a. word that reached
my very soul, shook my whole man, and brought me
to the ground! — that word Eternity!'

Eternity!

Ill

Eternity!

The very word is the stateliest cathedral of
human speech. It is the transcendent triumph of
articulation. It stands among the few real sub-
limities of our vocabulary. It is one of those mag-
nificences of language that defy all definition, one

250 A Bunch of Everlastings

of those splendours of expression that leave nothing
to be said.

Oh, the clanging bells of Time!

How their changes rise and fall;
But in undertone sublime,

Sounding clearly through them all
Is a voice that must be heard,

As our moments onward flee;
And it speaketh aye one word, —

Eternity ! Eternity !

That insistent voice is the voice that Stephen
Grellet heard in the leafy solitudes that memorable
evening. 'Eternity! Eternity! Eternity!' The
word falls upon the ear like the booming of the
ocean on the crags along the coast. It rings and
echoes and reverberates and resounds through all the
intricate avenues and the tortuous corridors of the
soul. The whole being trembles at its utterance as
the abbey shudders to the organ's diapason. Every
faculty is awed into stillness ; the soul is hushed into
worship. The word has all the music of the spheres
within its syllables; and, when it has been spoken,
all attempts at amplification or explanation become
pitiful impertinences.

Eternity!

Eternity!
Eternity!
The classic use of the word occurs in Mrs. Beecher

Stephen Grellet's Text 251

Stowe's historic masterpiece. Poor Uncle Tom,
having fallen into the hands of the wretched and
brutal Legree, had been thrashed within an inch of
his life. He lay bleeding, and writhing in anguish,
in the old slave-shed. But his soul was not in the
shed. For, as the solemn light of dawn — the an-
gelic glory of the morning star — looks in through
the rude window, Tom thinks of the Bright and
Morning Star. He ponders on' the Great White
Throne, with its ever-radiant rainbow; the white-
robed multitude, with voices as many waters; the
crowns, the palms, the harps; these may all break
upon his vision before that sun shall set again. And,
therefore, without shuddering or trembling, he hears
the voice of his persecutor :

'How would ye like to be tied to a tree, and have
a slow fire lit up around ye ?' asks Legree. 'Wouldn't
that be pleasant, eh, Tom ?'

'Mas'r, says Tom, *I know ye can do dreadful
things, but' — he stretched himself upward and
clasped his hands — 'but after ye've killed the body,
there ain't no more ye can do. And, oh ! there's all
Eternity to come after that !'

Eternity!

'Eternity!^ exclaims Mrs. Beecher Stowe, 'the
word thrills through the black man's soul with light
and power as he utters it ; it thrills through the sin-
ner's soul, too, like the bite of a scorpion.'

Eternity!

353 A Bunch of Everlastings

Eternity!

It is one of the overpowering immensities of our
faith, and we preachers must make the most of it.
The people are sick and tired of trifles. The day
of catch-penny titles and silly subjects is as dead as
the dodo. It ought never to have dawned. It is a
page in church history over which every true minis-
ter of the New Testament will blush whenever he
comes upon it. The man who announces as his theme
a subject that is beneath the dignity of the eternal
harmonies can never have heard the music of the
choir invisible. He can never have seen the Lord
high and lifted up. He can never have heard the
seraphs that cry continually : 'Holy, Holy, Holy is
the Lord of Hosts; the whole earth is full of His
glory!* The lips that have been touched with the
glowing coal from the altar can never again be lent
to ecclesiastical frivolity. It is wrong ; it is wicked ;
it is shameful. And, to quote a famous but sinister
phrase, 'it is not only a crime, it is a blunder.' For
the people are impatient of trivialities. The hearts
of men are hungry for the most stupendous themes.
They like great preaching. The big subjects draw
the big crowds. Little children amidst city squalor
love to put the sea-shells to their ears because in them
they catch the murmur of fathomless seas and limit-
less oceans; and children of a larger growth turn

Stephen Grellet's Text 253

from much that is sordid in their environment to the
preacher who helps them to hear the music of the
infinite.

Eternity!

Eternity !

Eternity!

The best illustration of my theme occurs in the
life of Dr. Thomas Chalmers. It is a dramatic page
in a wonderful spiritual experience. Let me briefly
marshal the facts. As a mere boy, having matricu-
lated at twelve, become a divinity student at fifteen,
and been licensed to preach at nineteen, Chalmers
becomes a minister at Kilmany. He devotes himself
to mathematics. On Sundays he thunders to decent
Presbyterians against murder and adultery; and
during the week he seeks to prepare himself to suc-
ceed Professor Playfair in the Mathematical Chair
of Edinburgh University. He writes a pamphlet, in
which he says : 'The author of this pamphlet can
assert from what to him is the highest of all au-
thority— the authority of his own experience —
that, after the satisfactory discharge of his
parish duties, a minister may enjoy five days in
the week of uninterrupted leisure for the prosecu-
tion of any science in which his taste may
dispose him to engage.' Then follow his illness,
his marvellous conversion, and his new minis-

254 A Bunch of Everlastings

try. Has Scotland ever known a life more
rich in spiritual influence or more fruitful of evan-
gelistic fervour? And in the course of that historic
ministry, in a debate before the General Assembly
of the Church of Scotland, Chalmers' early pamphlet
is quoted in support of the low views it advocates.
Chalmers is stung to the quick. He rises and makes
one of his very greatest speeches. And, in closing,
he exclaims : 'Yes, sir, I penned it, strangely blinded
that I was! I aspired in those days to be a pro-
fessor of mathematics. But what, sir, is the object
of mathematical science? Magnitude, and the pro-
portion of magnitude ! But in those days, sir, I had
forgotten two magnitudes — I thought not of the
littleness of Time, and I recklessly thought not of
the greatness of Eternity!'

Eternity !

Eternity!

I recently took a long, long railway journey.
Through a thousand miles of civilisation, a thousand
miles of desert, and a thousand miles of bush, the
train bore me to a part of this vast continent in
which I found myself surrounded by trees that were
entirely new to me, and by flowers such as I had
never seen before. I freely expressed my admira-
tion, and, when the time came to commence my

Stephen Grellet's Text 255

homeward journey, I found among the mementoes
with which I was presented a beautiful bunch of
everlastings. A Bunch of Everlastings! It seems
to me I have this morning been gathering just such
a bouquet. Here is Stephen Grellet Hstening to the
great word that rings through the silence of the
forest, 'Eternity! Eternity! Eternity!' Here is
Uncle Tom uttering the same word with strange
and wonderful effects: 'Eternity!' Here is Dr.
Chalmers confessing that the mistakes of his life
lay in his forgetting the greatness of Eternity! The
list could be indefinitely continued; the valleys are
full of everlastings. 'That night,' says Ebenezer
Erskine, in recording in the pages of his diary the
greatest spiritual crisis that he ever knew, 'that
night I got my head out of Time into Eternity!'
'The vastness of the word Eternity was impressed
upon me,' says Andrew Bonar in his diary; and,
a few months later, he says again, 'I strive to keep
the feeling of Eternity always before me !' 'Gentle-
men,' exclaims old Rabbi Duncan to his students as
he dismisses them at the end of the year's work,
'many will be wishing you a Happy New Year.
Your old tutor wishes you a happy Eternity!'
Eternity !

Eternity

VIII

Eternity!
Eternity!

256 A Bunch of Everlastings

It is good, as Stephen Grellet discovered on that
memorable evening, to wander at times into the
fields and the forests. To-day I have been out into
the fields that are boundless, and, as the fruits of
my stroll, I have brought back —

A Bunch of Everlastings !

THE NE\^
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